Millennia of mourning

Morning comes; I watch a civilization awaken.
Daylight comes; only then does my mind fall asleep.

My sleep is my fog.
I lie upon the cold stone within me.

I caught a chill long ago;
I have been cold ever since.
I cough and sneeze;
I have been ill ever since.

Yet without them,
I would not know what to do with the mattress.

Memories keep me breathing still,
not living, merely alive.
I made them myself;
even my past is only my own shadow cast backward.

Millennia have passed over the great regret,
and I have not forgotten.
Centuries have passed over the final defeat,
and the blow still lingers in my bones.

I mourn even while laughing;
my smile, a mask worn thin.
My eyes have exhausted their water;
my tears run blood-red.

My hand that strokes echoes is calloused.
When it reaches for the one I love,
it suffers as though touching thorns.

I marvel at life,
wondering what counterfeit game it is.
Every rule feels borrowed,
every victory rehearsed.

I long for another life,
one untouched by the common script.
I long for another game,
one that feels more real in its unreality.

Yet this is precisely my toy:
the thing I never tire of playing with,
my despair.

― Atrona Grizel