The journeyman scurries for the myth,
Alas - It had led to no avail,
Only to grasp sorrow's glyph,
And a wastage of his sail.

It was then - he knew,
The blue rose - nothing but folklore,
For hope passes as the winds blew,
As he screeched - "No more!"

Left with not a single mark,
As the journeyman left the cell,
For he has lost to the bark -
Of the accursed creature of Hell.

A lesson to learn -
"Chase not a myth, or live for disappointment -
Left with nothing but sorrow to churn,
And to your heart - the strike of Penthos's ailment,"
What's worse than having everything going against you?
Is that you get the most perfect, beautiful dream in your sleep - and waking up realising that that perfection could possibly never be achieved. That all you wanted in life came in a split second - and left you all the same.

I guess that's the ultimatum of my mind's illusion.
The compression of every thought and ideals in my mind.
That elusive beauty that I could possibly never know.

*Elusive Compressive Illusiveness*

The elusive beauty of illusions -
In this compressed memory -
I awake to concussions -
Only to feel sorry -
To this self-ridden soul -
That is void of all perfection -
An infinite loophole -
Carrying this malediction -
For all I wanted is life was achieved -
In the illusion of my mind -
Alas it can never be retrieved -
For elusiveness carries the bind -
Firaga - The flame of life -
Towards this compressive strife -