The Dream That Died

The Dream That Died

It came to me with open hands,

a future breathing on my skin.

I carried it through crowded days,

believing time would let it in.

I fed it hope and quiet plans,

spoke to it when nights were long.

It listened like it understood,

like it knew where I belonged.

Then cracks appeared in borrowed light,

small doubts I tried to look beyond.

I told myself it would survive,

that wanting made a promise strong.

One morning it was lying still,

no sound left in the shape of it.

The air was heavier to breathe,

as if the world refused to fit.

I did not scream or curse the sky,

I simply sat and felt it end.

Some losses do not ask for tears,

they ask you who you are now then.

I walk on with its shadow near,

a lesson stitched into my days.

A dream can die and still leave proof,

that once I burned in hopeful ways.