Poetry

Hollow

There was a time where there was light,
A time you'd try to reach the sky,
Just to know what a warm touch was like.
But then you knew, right, to err is human.
But you, you had blundered, and won.
It was just a firefly that flew too close,
That you mistook for the burning sun.

The worst kind of victory is an empty one,
One where there is no prize or glory,
One where you overestimate the reward
And experience bitter disappointment
In the subtle kind of sorrow you get,
Experiencing death between breaths,
Or the sudden silence after an applause.

But self destruction is your pestilence
And you know it shall always remain so,
For as long as you're a travesty of idols,
Who you fear that you'll never surpass.
Maybe you're just destined for such loss.
Or maybe you've just lost yourself, again
Fumbling blindly, chasing a phantasm.