The Dreamer....

The kindest soul, lonely and frayed,

he stands in the shadows, leaning on his silence,

his body weary, held up by fragments, threadbare dreams

stitched together with bruises and calloused hands.

 

His smile, brighter than a thousand skies

and yet flickering like a candle in a storm,

a disguise wrapped around the cracks,

whispers he won't speak aloud—

he knows what it is to feel like splintered glass.

 

Wisdom born from wounds,

etched into his skin like faded ink,

lessons learned in the dark,

where he kept his sorrows wrapped tight,

where he left his heart open and unguarded.

 

He dreams not for himself but for those he’ll never meet,

for hands yet un-scarred, for laughter untouched by loss.

This dream of his—an ember passed down,

a torch he knows will light the way,

even if his hands grow too tired to hold it.

 

He dreams of a world without hurt,

a place he might never reach,

but his heart builds bridges from fragments of hope,

leaving footprints in the dust,

for the ones who will walk, and rise—

a new dawn breaking through his endless night.

 

Even if he falters, even if he falls,

the dream will live on, held in hands unburdened,

a gift from a man too wise, too kind, too broken

to let the world shatter like he has.

And in that, he is whole.

And in that, he will never give up.

Never.