Echo of Laughter
by Dawg
A sound rings through the caverns of my mind, sharp and uninvited,
laughter, but not the kind that soothes–a brittle, hollow noise, blighted.
It bounces off walls I thought I had braced, shattering silence with cruel intent,
a mocking ghost, stripped of warmth, its joy a thing that’s been misspent.
Once, laughter was a refuge, a burst of light in the cracks of the dark,
a spark that caught in the throat and spilled, igniting life with its fleeting mark.
But this carries shadows, warped and jagged, it pierces, it scrapes,
a memory gutted of mirth, a laugh that escaped through twisted shapes.
I chase the sound through corridors unlit, where walls drip with regret,
past faces etched in laughter once whole, now fractured, their smiles a threat.
They watch me stumble in pursuit, their eyes shining with disdain,
as if to say, “The laughter you seek was never yours; it was born of pain.”
And perhaps it was, for who laughs in purity? Who finds joy unscathed?
Even the kindest mirth has claws, hidden truths beneath its charade.
A cruel reminder, that laughter’s sound is not always a balm or a grace,
but a razor’s edge, slicing through memories, leaving scars in its place.
It grows louder, the ringing, a crescendo of the past,
a symphony of jests once harmless, now barbs that will not pass.
I remember the laughter that stung as much as it healed,
the kind wielded like a weapon, truths too sharp to be concealed.
It pulls me deeper, through a web of twisted jest and jibe,
each step a stumble through the wreckage of times I couldn’t survive.
And yet, I cannot stop chasing, though the sound mocks with every beat,
the laughter that once lifted me now chains my weary feet.
There, at last, I find its keeper grim and still,
a figure carved from my reflection, staring with a laughter that kills.
Its smile is wide but empty, its eyes are mine but hollowed out,
and its laugh is my own, a soundless roar, a scream turned inside out.
“What is laughter but the mask of sorrow?” it whispers, a truth so clear,
“A shield against the weight of life, the acid sting of fear.”
And I know it speaks no lies, for laughter has always been my blade,
a fragile weapon forged from pain, a shield to hide where I’m afraid.
The sound fades, but not without leaving its mark upon my skin,
a tattoo of truths once hidden, a reminder of where I’ve been.
And though I’ll laugh again, as we all must, in the fleeting glow of day,
I’ll hear it in the silence, and know the price I’ve paid to play.