Lamentations

Who am I to lament my sorrows? Do I consider myself special? Do I consider myself different? If everyone else endures the very same, be it by another name, then who am I to suffer?

My haunting face too knows pain. As much pain as it has caused. My sorrows are born of sorrow. My pains arise from pain. The distance between it and I are but further cause. The words it utters transcend time. I am beguiled by beauties of the past. I turn my head to see. I am cut and scarred by present sights. I turn away in resignation. And comes the song of futures unlived. I am helpless but to look. Spoken pain. Tangible sorrow. Visible lamentation.

Does the face that haunts also weep? Does it weep for me? I weep upon its sight. As much as of my own. Who is to blame for its sadness? Is it to blame for mine? Am I to blame for its?

Do we grieve our lives? Does our grief beget grief? Be this the product of our disunion? Shall it take form: shall life beget death? Your life has taken mine. By letting me live. You have made me an outcast of a world unalive. Then cast me back to darkness. No sorrow is greater than to know life yet not live.

I lament you. I lament myself. I lament the world. I lament life. But which is to blame? I lament the unknown. I lament my lamentations.

But who am I to lament? If you too bear such pains? Ours are different. Whose is greater? Must grief be earned? Must it be born? And who is the bearer? Whose face shall it wear?

Crown us king and queen that our graves might show beauty. Let our crowns be the halos that mark our demise. Let those beneath us bow before us. Let our regality be earned. Our suffering deserved.

Let us be torn apart. Lest life be the product of our union. Lest we become undeserving of the sorrow we beget. Let our faces be haunting. Let them shine with tears. Let silence beget song. Let darkness be visible.

Let me be one to suffer. That I might earn our grave.