Old dreams lie quiet,
like seeds buried in the dark,
roots twisted deep inside the chest
where reason cannot reach.
The mind shrugs — childish stuff,
and turns away with logic’s stern hand,
but the heart keeps them
like pressed flowers,
fragile, waiting.
Then a scent, a song,
a half-forgotten voice —
and suddenly they rise,
ghosts of what might have been,
stinging sharper than new wounds.
Perhaps they hurt more with years
because we know now
what was possible,
what was lost,
what never will be.
Dreams don’t die with time.
They hide.
And when they return,
they remind us
Of what we once believed.
