In my ascent to gigantic benchmarks, I stepped on many toes.
I adorned and abandoned masks like a transformable being.
I picked values from the spinning wheel of time, my finger pointing at the moral that was made for that day.
I stifled the punching pillow that was my snuffling conscience to the point where there was no more cushion left in it to protest.
Somewhere, near the end, I woke up, wondering who the hell I was. Why not seek answers from the mirror?
I vainly strutted to the metal-glass amalgam and the looking glass gave me answers to questions I hadn’t dared ask.
A red face taunted me. A red that had once indicated passion, screamed resentment and fury.
My sadness was striped across blue sagged shoulders. That explained why I felt so blue.
I felt sick to my stomach. I gaped at the green belly, overflowing with the sins of greed and envy. What else had I digested?
My yellow hands were spotted with cowardice. No wonder people always said that I got my hands dirty.
My legs were shrouded in sad shades of grey. Sigh. I am, indeed, on my last legs.
Then, my attention was averted to another body part: my heart had begun oozing out black darts. I was both the aimer and the target in this game of mourning.
I moved my quivering lips, turned cold, cold white, to mouth a question into the mirror,
“Was it worth it in the end?”
The colourful answer stared back leaving me colourless.