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The Second Man

A Poem

By Mihaela VasilevaPublished 4 years ago 2 min read
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The Second Man
Photo by Ian Chen on Unsplash

As he searched his pockets,

he began to sink into the inevitable truth:

what was lost was to remain lost indefinetly.

Saddened by this fact, he proceeded to wait.

Perhaps time would unravel hidden corners,

show him the light at the end of the tunnel,

point him, maybe wrongly at first,

in the right direction.

He had spent years attempting to figure out the meaning of his life,

searching in full capacities for what his soul desperately craved.

He had not found it in the childish games of his friends

nor in the drinks he had once considered to be sweet.

He had not found peace in late night strolls on the empty streets,

for he knew that the restless ghouls caused the pavement to crumble

beneath him.

His gambling days had long evaporated into thin air,

much so like the bills he had so easily thrown in the pot.

He had had his debts, and the consequences had destroyed

all he had known of good life.

He had watched good folks run out of his life, heading

for the nearest possible salvation from his selfishness and cruelty.

He had become acquainted with the Underground:

He was a sick man. He was a spiteful man.

He had not known hope, and his desires had become his temporary dose

of happiness for one hour.

Like a vicious beast, he craved blood, and tasting it meant

going after prey even when he wasn't hungry.

The pleasures of evil had had him give up humanity,

convincing him that his life had been nothing up until he had fully exposed himself.

For a while, he had believed he was happy,

but,

underneath his sinister smile

lay a crumbling man whose heart was tormented by sorrow

and by grief for the man he used to be.

He had looked up at the stars one night.

Praying onto them, he had whispered his grievances.

Knowing he wasn't going to be heard, he wept.

He had wept so that his tears were the only thing strong enough to get him to move forward.

He had wept so that his sadness would ask him the simplest of questions:

Where had he gone wrong?

How was he to prosper?

The good books had always motioned him to do bigger things,

to strive for happiness,

to conquer evil with a sword of compassion,

to destroy all that was wrong

by understanding and believing that there was still

good.

Yet the man, now tired of his pestilent nature, knew no way out.

He was stuck in the ground he had uncovered himself.

He was breathless,

motionless.

There he would dwell, and attempt to survive.

He had not looked for a way out.

He had not seen the key.

He knew with utmost certainty,

he was to be chained to the wrongs that he had commited,

perhaps eternally, and perhaps

purely.

sad poetry
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About the Creator

Mihaela Vasileva

I write based on heart. I love based on thought. I think based on truth.

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