As he felt his grip loosen up from the tight recluse of his own body,
he yields from the long disdain.
He was still there but not really, a rite of passage an anomaly.
A broken piece of mirror reflects his solidarity.
He looked upon his dirt filled hands and yearned for an answer.
How did it come to this? does the man only truly live to endure?
To place one's trust upon the unsure,
but to fade nonetheless?
He stood there afar as the familiar passes through the sidewalks.
Ignoring, unable to perceive him, conniving, appalling.
It didn't matter which realm, it was the same.
The cards that were dealt was a bust all the same.
He was begging for a relapse, a do over, a chance to make things right.
It's not fair, it never was. He fought the fight and reached the heights,
only to fall face first flat through the concrete floor.
It has ended, he has come.
There is no turning back, no ballads, epitaph nor sonnets.
No memory to speak off, nor presence to latch.
And at above he looks below, and cared for nothing, yet for a moment he remembers,
what it felt like down there looking up, caring so much.
