Where Fantasy Forgets Me
"Sometimes the softest dreams unravel into ash."
My mind walks landscapes made of ash,
where stars collapse in whimsy’s flash.
I reach for light, but it turns to dust—
a mirror cracking from broken trust.
A hallucination holds my hand
and leads me through this haunted land.
Here, love once bloomed in endless spring,
now silence grows in everything.
The bones of joy lie at my feet,
while reverie weeps down the street.
I build my hope with shattered clay,
a dream that fades at break of day.
My imagination carves the sky—
with wings no real bird learns to fly.
Visualization paints a place
where I exist without a face.
Fantasy kissed me in the dark,
then vanished—
like the last cold spark.
Copyright © Becoming trude from the ruins | Year Posted 2025
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