Dreams that
die young,
live inside,
as dead trees:
with no fruits or
flowers to give.
They grow not
but persist,
give pain
on touch:
to the heart
as never.
They prick
as a thorn,
but also give,
a fragrance:
fragrance,
that’s sweet.
And keeps you,
wide awake,
to the dreams
you grasped:
The dreams, that
Fell on the way.
Say not, the
past is past,
maybe you,
love it or not:
It lives in you,
forever.
