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When I was but a shadow

By

 




Aadil Ghulam Bhat 

Poet and Author



A dramatic monologue 

Ah! those days, those cursed days—when I was but a shadow,  

Dancing in her light—was it light or was it darkness?  

I cannot tell.  

She called herself the sun, the center of it all,  

And I, the orbiting moon, content to bask in her glow.  

How foolish was I to believe such illusions,  

To think that warmth was love, and light was life.


She spoke of love, yes—often, with fervor—  

Yet her words were hollow, echoing through the empty chambers of my heart.  

For what is love to one who sees only herself?  

What is devotion but a tool, a means to an end,  

To chisel away at my being until nothing remained?  

I was clay in her hands, molded to fit her desire,  

Yet never enough, never whole, always lacking.


Do you see how she looked at me? Or through me, perhaps?  

Her eyes—cold mirrors, reflecting only her own image,  

While I, a ghost, drifted in the periphery of her world.  

I waited, oh, how I waited—for a glance, a touch,  

Some sign that I existed beyond her whims.  

But all I found was emptiness, a void where my soul once thrived.


I remember the words, those sweet, poisonous words—  

Promising forever, yet delivering only today—  

A today filled with demands, with needs never mine.  

She spoke of dreams—her dreams—while mine crumbled to dust,  

Sacrificed at the altar of her insatiable hunger.  

And I, like a fool, offered them willingly,  

Believing that in giving, I might receive.


But what did I receive? Nothing but a mirror’s cold gaze—  

A reflection of her desires, her ambitions—  

While mine were swallowed whole, lost to the abyss of her ego.  

She took and took, until nothing was left to give,  

And even then, she demanded more—always more.


I see it now, clear as the daylight she claimed to bring—  

I was but a pawn in her game, a means to an end.  

She was the queen, ruler of her own kingdom,  

And I, the servant, the jester, the fool,  

Dancing to her tune, believing that in my sacrifice,  

I might find her love. But love—ah, love was never hers to give.


Now, in the silence that follows her departure,  

I am left with the shards of what once was—  

A broken mirror, reflecting a thousand fractured memories,  

Each one a reminder of the days I spent in her prison.  

But I am free now, or so I tell myself,  

Free to rebuild, to gather the pieces of my shattered self,  

And perhaps, one day, to find a love that’s true.


But until then, I carry with me the weight of those days,  

The lessons learned in the heart of darkness,  

And the scars that tell the story of my time in her prison.  

For though she is gone, her shadow lingers still—  

A reminder of the price I paid for believing in her light.


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