In His Footsteps

I live in the shadow of my brother
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.

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Note: Abang, if you're reading this (because you're known to occasionally lurk around these parts), don't think of anything and just walk away. *segan*

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.