i watch myself on the grainy reel
the boy already drowning in the first act
his fists raw against the wall of some impossible climb
every cut of the film a scar that never closed
yet i know the ending already
the champion survives
because i am here watching
i see the paths i never could explain to him
the false light leading into enemy hands
the friends who fall in slow motion
their mouths opening but never finishing the sentence
i want to shout into the screen
there is another way turn here do not trust them
but the projector runs on and my voice is swallowed
i took the harder road because it looked like fire
because pride is a cruel director
and i thought rebellion was the only language i spoke
and so the story kept breaking me into shape
until i stood at the summit with everything
and still felt the black hole circling
still felt that gravity of not enough
i wish i could reach back and stitch his wounds shut
wipe the sweat before it blinds him
but the truth is i would only ever be reaching for myself
the boy and the man and the ghost the same
all of us turning in the same orbit
and i know now
i was sculpting this image with my own hands
chiseling toward my own ruin or redemption
alone in the light of my own making