Vast monuments to human achievement,
Outlined against a violet sky,
Shine brightly, and boast splendors of their own,
Which grow in intensity as the dusk gives way to night.
The brilliant array of vibrant lights, are reflected,
Lustrous, in pristine glass, joined by ethereal echoes
Resonating from far below
Recalling a chorus of distant voices, raised in elation.
Yet, my eyes open, as they always do,
Not to the mirage of imagined promises,
But to the desert left behind: a ruined landscape
Of flickering lights, and murmured profanities.
And then I know,
That this deception, so convincing, so desirable,
Could only be yours.
Vague, invisible, yet ever present,
You flit capriciously among my memories,
Obscuring reality as you see fit,
Enveloping all in the haze of reverie.
Author of “once upon a time,”
Historian to “the good old days,”
None may escape from your mirrored labyrinth, trapped,
By reflections of sweet remembrance, or bitter regret.
Every second that passes
Is added to your domain,
Every triumph, every sorrow,
Has already been claimed.
You are everywhere I have ever been,
But never where I am,
Spreading, ever growing,
And yet, I know I must remember, is to you,
releasing memory from reality’s bonds, to whom I owe
My most cherished moments,
My dearest recollections.