I am the dusk, he is the glorious dawn
— golden and resplendent
I harbour a great sad love for him
much like a rock who yearns to fly
— a rock is not alive, I am not alive.
My failures hold trials against me in my heart
where they are judge, jury and persecutor
— I stand alone
Half of my being is against me
My witness is but my voiceless body
— caged, I am muffled in my chest
I look for his elusive footsteps
in the sands of time, they burn brighter still.
This came to me earlier this afternoon as I was reading Kundera's Life is Elswhere. Sometimes, while reading and pondering what is said in the book, in the dragnet of my musings a poem pops up and here's one of them. So yeah, that's all I'm saying about it.