Some Shredded Dreams

A little joy once ran free,

chasing a ball,

hands up in the air,

screaming happiness into open streets.

Running to stop the ball,

running to strike it with a bat—

but now those hands

don’t even remember how to hold it.

Did you cut your hands,

or did you make them useless?

What about the hands that taught you how to dream—

did you forget them,

or did you betray them?

Why did you stop running in the streets?

Don’t they feel familiar anymore?

Can’t you hear your younger screams

echoing between the walls?

Little dreams in a small head

turn into echoes,

slowly fading—

just like the strength in those hands.

The child starts to hide,

while the grown adult

shows up every day,

wearing responsibility like armor.

As you hold the ball again,

you remember him—

crying for it,

begging for just a little time to play.

Now it’s all echoes,

unknown photos,

half-remembered handshakes,

distant screams.

Time didn’t heal it.

Time killed it.

The little kid didn’t grow up—

he faded.

And what remains

is a grown adult,

full of silence,

full of void.

-Just an old written lines-