Self

What has made you like this?
Everything has made me like this.
Say, what your wisdom could be?
Could it be your life, or just your thoughts.

Time aims to finish.
Life aims to perish.
The warm world of closed eyes.
Or the reality that always freezes.

Should there be any difference,
the world has never spoken any sentence.

Life's just a game.
And I'd be disappointed for this:
I've always wanted to win,
for nothing should bother me.

Never did I think of them,
who are destined to lose, no matter what.
Some of them are still trying,
and some others; they just give up.

What's life for a winner? What's life for a loser?
Never have I found any interesting difference.

If death wants,
he could take us now.
While he sometimes teases us,
by telling his promises about the probability of himself taking us.

Fulfill your wish, could you.
Get your dream, would you.
Run until you drop, should you.
Do them, cause death might tell you his promises.

And never haven't I believed destiny nor reality.
Cause in my way, neither of them has ever been that freezing.

One's Reflection for a story, "Narcissu"