Who is this that suffers now? A me that never was, or ever meant to be?
So what is this you suffer? That you exist, that you must be?
That which passes endlessly but never lets you be?
What of these tears your eyes let weep remorseful as the sea?
Surely not to pity me, perhaps a me that might have been.
Perhaps regret for all the pain of everyone but me.
To whom does this belong this ignorance habitual?
This fear? Is it me? Is wisdom mine then too?
That knows the clouds are only passing through.
That knows my sun shines nonetheless an illusion to be true?
That knows a heart was broken but never once by you.
Your blows could only open it and I could only let you.
Yet still the demon raged and fought, to crush subdue this thing.
You threaten my fragility, I turn and show my sting.
And who is that turns again like a bubble in the wind?
No wonder I’m attached to this illusion frail thing!
Ans still regret another me, that an other might have been.
Some other frail illusion, some other passing thing.
So where is this pain that seems so real?
I’ve searched my whole life round.
To find a place, a source, a me that simply can’t be found.
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