Why am I trying to catch this light,
When it runs away
Just as the last.
Why can't I understand,
That to touch it
Is impossible once passed?
But it's beauty I am left
Entranced, wishing for it
To hold in my hands,
But trying is a frailty better left
In the bottomless pit
I found it in.
For the fly cannot be caught,
Only forgotten to be left alone,
Or swatted after the annoyance.
The light cast before me,
Was not a light,
Just another caught up in their own image,
Gathering a flock of bleating men
Who would swear, each of them,
That the light chose them.
A light only passing by to turn heads,
Is a light better left forsaken,
Never to be admired again.
This game I will not play,
But no worries, little cruelty,
Beyond me await many more to ensnare.
35 lines, 285 days left.
