The Desert

What’s left here is a desert. The ruins of a dead era left to be hidden in the sand by time. Ozymandias and I were the same in our bold assumptions of the future, the same in the end those assumptions met. I built you up like a gold statue, placed you within the eternal walls of your confined palace. But the palace wore out, fell down due to too many faults. Now you stand alone to face the agonizingly slow erosion of my attraction. With time you will crumble and merge with the sand; but right now your edges remain sharp, your brilliance, blinding. With time I will find it easier to not linger here, hypnotized by sandstorms; but for now I seem only capable to trace circular paths back here.
I want to be free from this, but somehow the past pulls harder than the future. I am no warrior, I have no honour to protect, and so I surrender. My will is no match for the mirages of this desert. These ruins return to their original majesty in my mind and I fall off into memories. But reality pinpricks these dreams and I’m left with nothing to show for the lost age I long for. Quick to runaway, I forgot a souvenir. These ruins are the only reminder of a future only the past holds. That future is my addiction, my obsession, the reason I return to these what-ifs.