Remorse and a figment of imagination,
One that dreams and is never fulfilled,
Such that his world exists only to be written,
On a sheet without a quill.

He whom this is is not blind to the reality,
That what inspires him day beyond day,
Is a trophy he will never attain,
But will lust for its beauty and make it his game.

Not one whispers his secrets,
Not one dares to understand his reasons.
It is they who are blind and those who shall retract,
And feel the absence of completeness in the end.

It is such a thing, this trophy, that its elegance is unfamiliar,
And beauty un-witnessed by the chastity of the beholder.
Few have gambled for its possession and an untold number of those have failed,
Few did not realize that you cannot catch what will not be caught.

The gazer retires at night and is distressed by his onus.
He then soon questions why he is so worthy of having that precious gem.
The odds set stacked against him as the affinity stretches beyond his years,
And in his mind it concerns him nothing as he is unfit for it.

But he is then reminded,
That in fact he has something to give,
And only he can offer it,
If this gem will open up to him.

There is too much to consider,
And the world is too ill-composed,
That life is never preset,
And he is ascared of stumbling as he might regret.

He sits, idle now, and never lets it withdraw.
The memories and the images,
And the lust for the one true thing he could treasure,
Which, he concludes, will never be possessed.