Ashes of Almost

Ashes of Almost

I stitched a sky from threads of hope,

Wove stars from dreams I dared to speak,

Lit lanterns out of whispered prayers,

And waited on the highest peak.

But morning came with clouded breath,

No trumpet call, no golden rise—

Just silence in the place of song,

And shadows thick behind my eyes.

I held the cup with trembling hands,

Poured all I had—my faith, my fire—

And watched it spill upon the ground,

A slow, unmaking of desire.

Disappointment wears no roaring face,

It does not break—it quietly bends,

It does not shout—it hums, it sighs,

It teaches how the bright thing ends.

Not with rage, but with retreat,

Not in storms, but gentle fades,

The sharpest cuts are soft and still,

Like roses wilting into shades.

It’s not the fall that hurts the soul,

But how the climb was all you knew,

How you believed the air was yours,

And tasted sky that wasn’t true.

Still, I gather pieces, one by one,

A shard of hope, a sliver of light—

Not to rebuild the same old dream,

But to breathe again into the night.

For though the heart may break, and break,

It finds a song inside the ache.

Disappointment—bitter, wise—

Leaves room for softer, deeper skies.