the man in the mirror | a bitter introspection

Don’t feel pain, do you?
Don’t snivel, don’t chuckle do you?
(Dabbled on the floor) don’t even crawl, do you?

Acceptance of a disguised defeat?
Will has died, wounds have dried.
“Hope” lying beside the feet.

“Great”, is a conjecture (now),
“Nice” is a luxury; “fine” is a dream.
Marrow-less spine, battered to bow.

Is this you were or ever yearned to be?
“Freedom has its costs”,
we were counseled, didn’t we?

Still, you trod recklessly,
Heeded none, (elders, omens, or gods)
Not even Me?

You let those dreams die,
the brunt of your steps dragged’em down,
the chin of a proud soldier once held high.

Neither abhor you nor admire you,
Neither love you nor disdain you,
Neither need you nor desire you.

Thou have suffered,
Thou shalt perish per diem,
The macabre series of deaths.

We were the Prometheus
But, you still are,
The eternal damnation awaits us.

Only if you still,
Don’t feel pain,
Don’t snivel, or chuckle.
Don’t even incite yourself,
to crawl.

Atharva

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