To climb atop the promontory

she had bled while building (for) herself,

appeared like the death of ambition,

in the perfectly glowing hands

she beheld in the blur of morn vision.


To have always known it as illusion

felt nothing like knowing it at last;

and learning it never existed –

even as an illusion she once endeared –

was the reason she resisted.


Her resistance was not an illusion.

It was the stingiest thorn

shamed into residing in her throat

where it lay without sheath,

nicking, pricking, stabbing

against every attempt to breathe.


Her dream had been far more truthful – 

Not the one wherein she ascended,

But the one wherein she was lost: 

Though also the one in which she found

the one she wished to climb for,

A stranger to her ambitious mount.


‘He is on his way home, to me!’

She had devotedly chanted the rote,

And though it had ceased to be a dream – 

(Where was he now?) ‘Hush!’ Hush!’ – 

Unaffected, as if (still) in a dream

she went on ironing the seam.


That he was removed from the present

seemed to her like a mystery solved,

for present always gives way to future.

Just then the thorn pricked once again

to push his having never been present

down her voiceless throat in pain.


And yet the question of a future

in which they shared the illusion,

permeated the quiet breaking of dreams,

like a future one can imagine, admire

but never claim as one’s own.

Artwork by: Samuele Errico Piccarini on Unsplash