Gatsby's Dream

Somewhere,
drowning in the endless
expanse of ocean and time
there is a dream.

It will never again see the surface.
That dream was my dream.
Jay Gatsby.
The Great Gatsby.

In my time,
when I was still alive,
I loved a woman
and she loved me.

I loved her the way
misers love gold,
like nymphs to the Spring.
She was my Flower.

Delicate. Beautiful.
A smile like no other,
but I could not have her.
I would never have her.

By the hands of the Stars,
we were meant to be lovers.
But those same Stars cursed us
and we were doomed to tragedy.

One of us at least.
All of my love and
all of my wealth and riches
could not buy her love.

My treasured flower
fell into the arms of another
who did not, could not,
love her.

Like I do. Like I did in life.
Love is so short.
Forgetting is so long.
I am dead, but I cannot forget.

Our young love was like the Spring.
Now, it is an endless Winter.
She no longer loved me, of that
I am certain, but I still loved her.

I still love her.
A man will give his life
for his love. I did. I gave everything.
Including my own life.

On that day,
standing over my own corpse
submerged beneath the pool's surface.
The green light flickered.

Old Man Death stood there
in the image of Dr. T.J. Ekcleburg,
cackling like a mad man.
He found humor in my fate.

Death smelled of Cognac and carbolic
and smoked the finest cigar.
In my ear, He whispered,
"You could not have her in the end."

Seven years after my death,
I still waited behind, here,
this place that caused me
pleasure and grief.

I found myself asking
time and time and time again,
"Ah, is that you visiting
at my grave?"

It was never her.
My Flower wilted away
and made her home
in another place.

She no longer loves me,
of that I'm certain, but
I still love her.
I will always love her.

Belittle me if you want!
My love for her is
my tragic flaw,
of this I know.

Twenty-one years after my death,
my Flower has come to my grave,
weeping and sobbing,
with pain in her heart.

I cannot soothe her
nor offer her my embrace.
Unfortunately,
It is too late.

My Flower has come to this place,
to my grave, too late. My memory
is fading away. I will be no more.
Anymore.

And although I loved her
in this past life; I cannot
carry my love for her
into my next life.

I cannot bear the suffering
she caused me.
I no longer love her,
but she loves me now.

At the end of the pier,
across the bay, the green light
flickers. It grows brighter
and shatters into a thousand pieces.

Forever extinguished.
Much like my love for Daisy.