Kalopsia

like the gold ring embracing my finger yet cold and aloof, always more beautiful just beyond my sight than within it because illusion is impossibly perfect a space beyond tangibility and compassion where perception is a curse word, as we willingly hand over our judgment for execution like a gladiator doomed to die, sacrificed for the amusement of spectators empty spectators seeking to fill themselves with the blood-caked sand of the arena oblivious to the grain they sell across the street you see yourself amid the rapacious press and it is beautiful to you for a moment, look closer the sleek, glossy pelts of the hunt-dogs will molt into skeletal mange you see that which you crave is an autumn leaf in the wind doomed to roam until it crumbles to dust unattainable perfection is a curse word as we seek to paint meaning onto the broken remnants of civilization that which you crave is a lie you have been spoonfed since you first took breath you cannot be anything you want some things are impossible and you will never fulfill all of your dreams but this is what they didn't tell you: the power of dreams is in the act, not the fulfillment impossibilities are the roadmap to your life and who you are is beautiful, because not despite, like you have been told because of your flaws, your failures, your sorrow these things do not define you they make you complete