You were a wanderer, curious of all the wonders of the world.

As you take steps, one after another, have you noticed it?

You were traveling for ages, have you not saw it?

The hands of twilight held yours, slowly, it caged you.

Could you save yourself? Was it too late?

 

 

The luster of the lone moon will never be enough,

To cover the immense void in your melancholic soul.

You bathe, slept, and prayed; did it work? Did they help?

The twilight has come, once again.

You cried, wept, and gasped for air. Was there an end?

 

 

You kept wandering, into the woods,

Under the luster of the lone moon.

As the Apollo rose on the East,

The heavy stones in your chest disappeared.

You found hope, light after a thousand years.

 

 

This is a note to myself: Breath, I tell you.

It has been a thousand years of walking,

Of gasping for air, suffocation from all the pain.

The twilight may last for decades but once again,

Apollo will rise from the East, and we will try again.

 

It was awakening.

The pain was an augment to your development.

It was a lesson learned,

That the night will last long, the moon will forever mourn,

but the sun will rise, and we will start over.