Discontent breaks me to a point
Where I step into the hollows of a familiar path
One I cannot bring myself to regret treading upon.
An entire life, stretched out in perfect view,
Yet not real enough to spot the hands—
Though to some eyes they are already damned.
An apparition of my former self,
Carried through to fruitition,
No longer forced to hide behind
The glamour of reformation.
Everything I do with joyful heart?
Nay—when shadows of possibility
Cloud every section of the heart,
And make the dreamer cry out in desperate longing,
For the pain to stop, or burn brighter in the flame
And consume it entirely.
It is not real. It is not real. It is not real.
Just a player on the stage;
But what is real is only from a distance.
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