Waning Poem by Mycho Jamil

Conversations without substance.

The night of May was chilly—
sufficiently dark and still
to quiet my emotions.
And it was then that I finally felt
the cold of the night. That night.

My head is empty,
just like the sky after a typhoon.
My heart, which until then
had felt pain and fear,
seemed to find relief in sorrow.

I long for the strength
that could weather any storm,
but such strength can never last.
As long as I remain who I am,
this lingering loneliness
will never be filled.

I tried several times
riling up myself with hatred,
but more than sorrow,
more than anger,
the emotion rushing through me
was despair.

What else besides despair
is there to feel?
No matter how much I agonize,
reality doesn't change at all.

Why do I strive so hard to be happy?
True happiness is fleeting.
Perhaps I am meant to
sate myself with the remnants
of this momentary bliss.

But this stifling pain
welling up in my heart
had made me realize
that this hope was no more
than a transient reverie.

The constant regression of this life
is akin to the waning of the moon—
and I question everything, including my sanity.