At 16 you were a rock star.
Amidst all of your dreams,
you went from an epitome of desire
to 20, isolated and hopelessly inert
in your self-inflicted pain.
You drown in self-induced ruminations
of the fall of a great and mighty kingdom
you being the now-supine king.
Depossessed and over-stressed.
And, I, of course, the travelling wanderer
who, in my great misfortune,
stumbled upon your ruins
and, out of blind compassion,
attempted to mend them together.
Finding myself, in the process,
deeply immersed in your parhelic circle.
And in love.
Now I have gone from 17,
a bright-eyed adventurer;
naive in my own respect and very alive
to nothing more than a piece of your ruins.