Cultivator (I Am)
Here lies the cultivator, who once sowed seeds of wisdom deep,
Amid the tombstones of success, where dreams and failures weep.
Each victory a fleeting spark, each setback a cruel keeper,
In the shadows of forgotten triumphs, the sage finds comfort, cheap.
The lessons learned from hollow cheers, now echoes in the night,
Resigned to cold reflection, where glory fades from sight.
What once was clear as morning dew is now a mournful blight,
A guiding light now distant, lost in darkness, out of sight.
With every failure’s bitter taste and every triumph’s brief embrace,
A truth emerged in silence, haunting, with a morose grace.
The wisdom that was earned, now etched in lines upon the face,
An elegy of clarity, left in fate’s unyielding chase.
No more the cheer of triumph’s roar or glory’s fleeting kiss,
For wisdom’s cost is steep, each gain matched with a miss.
The path now walks alone, in the fog of what is,
The sage’s light is but a whisper, lost in an abyss.
The mournful song of victory, the dirge of lessons learned,
In every high and every low, the flicker of truth is churned.
Yet here lies the cultivator, whose fire within has burned,
In the graveyard of ambition, where all dreams are adjourned.
So gather round the shadows, where wisdom’s tombstones lay,
For even in the somber echoes, a guide may find its way.
In the soil of failure, amidst the disarray,
A cultivator’s spirit rises, though the night may sway.
To the sage whose wisdom’s cost was borne on every broken vow,
In the quiet of reflection, a light is shining now.
Not in grandeur or in glory, but in the truth we avow,
A cultivator of shadows, with lessons steeped and plowed.