A Wannabe Clone

Inexhaustible shadows

Always casting

Over hopes

And fears.

They’re but so perfect,

Yet so unreal.

 

Distorted images of the truth

Multiplying and stretching

On what is pen ultimately correct.

A Trompe L’Oeuil

Disguised as ourselves,

A Wannabe.

 

Your sorry attempt as a shadow,

Craving my soul,

Grasping at my every breath,

At my freshness,

At my aptitude to be good at everything you are bad at

What a pitiful sight,

A thief

Who cannot rob,

Who’s being pursued

By what he doesn’t

And will never have.

 

You’re just a clone,

And you didn’t even manage that right.

You lack my passion,

You’d get the drought

After I’d quenched my thirst.

Too late again my friend,

Too late again.