The rain seems to have brought back memories
but not the ones that I had once lived through
to grab a handful of sand, only to see it slipping
the crevices of my hands were never meant to be a dam.
I broke down the other day, in the arms of another
I told her about you, about who and what you are
I shed tears and leapt into a sea of guilt, headfirst
I built a tomb for a man half forgotten.
Was it me who put you there, or was it you?
Standing tall on that pedestal, looking down at creation
Was it me who put you there, or was it you?
Molding your own sense of being to fulfill the needs of others.
Time has flown by, vehemently, erasing and eroding
the shores, where that river flowed, no longer exist
separated by eternity, where I can only see your back
walking away in the distance, engraving a new scenery.
The lines between reality and delusion have blurred
or maybe they were never there in the first place
just like the anguish that haunts the night before dawn
present only when you least look for it, never chased.
The recurring nightmare, or is it that fleeting happiness?
that memory of you, I dare not question if it's real
the ideals distilled into me, from what I knew, from who you were
to have funneled it back into the vault that contains you.
Portraits and messages, long forgotten, hold meaning no longer
the blowing ashes took the warmth of the pyre with them
washing my hands, in the well of memories that I sully
I built a tomb for a man half forgotten.