I dreamed as a child of a life yet to be a doctor, a lawyer, a spaceman was me. The stars were my canvas, the world was my stage, each unwritten book held a luminous page.
As years carried on, my visions took flight, a actor, a singer, a ballplayer in light. The applause of the crowd, or the sky’s endless dome, I reached and I tried to make them my home.
But life is not fair it sees what it sees, Not the good in my heart, but the flaws in the leaves. It stripped me of hope, it hollowed my flame, it whispered of failure, it called me by name.
Now I look back at dreams torn apart, fragments of longing that lived in my heart. They drifted away like smoke in the rain, forgotten by others yet etched in my pain.
I know I have failed in ways I could mend, abandoned the paths, the roads without end. Reality slipped through the cracks of my hand, and dreams are the only place I still stand.
Never to be seen, yet they live in me still. A quiet rebellion, a flicker of will. Though tatters remain though shadows may fall. Dreams are the echo that answers my call.
So, I write not for pity, but honor instead, the fire that lingers, the words left unsaid. For even in failure, the dreams still remain. Silent companions, carved deep in my pain.
And perhaps it is enough, though the world passed me by, That I dreamed, that I reached, that I dared to try.
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