watershed
2020-01-01

***

before, in your grief, you proclaim
"I have yearned for all, and yet the world stays the same"
just remember how you swore off eternal fame

dear Coleridge, insistent that the crowds were in the wrong
for not cherishing the pains he put into every song
"damn it all!" he said, and turned his back to the throng

but in the throes of midnight, you turn your eyes to the sky
to cotton ball clouds you imagine the stars hide behind
fervent prayers to Nyx between fatigue-laced sighs

petition to pass into the world of the beyond
very little with which you care to abscond
"I've ascended the mountain; I've claimed the crown;
now grant me sweet rest and let my fire burn down."

the world shifts, and you find yourself prostrate to the throne
of the goddess of flowers you can't claim as your own
and in her hands is a circle, a mirror of glass
like the one which shattered and brought with it lovers past

and like the one who told you to say wolf
her rough hands lift it so you can behold
a forehead laced with pearly crocheted veil of sweat
bogged down with weight of memory, pain of regret

horrified, you recoil from the mirror and cry
"oh gods, spare me the horrors of the mind!"
so mindless you wander: retarded you find
that the rest of the world has left you behind

now, granted, this is but mere parable
far from fitting fate for one so gentle
but Saint Sakura stares at the family altar
and wonders what day everything started to falter

a mind languishing in the gentlest of hells to behold
an intellectual wasteland where minds go to fold
like a house of cards, once great empire crashing in
and leaving oneself trembling in fear of uncertain sin

dear child, please know that you're far from a flop
but your course is charted; you've come too far to stop
greatness now tangible, taken shape and form
your choice: to snatch it, or shrink back and mourn?

***

CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 (c) Vane Vander