There might be more, but that’s the beauty of it.
It may get lost; everything is ephemeral,
but in that temporariness, you find beauty.
I wrote, read, shown, then forgotten —
not truly lost, but scattered across memory.
I once discarded poems so I wouldn't grow too attached.
And if I have lost those little poems,
It would not matter in terms of technicality,
Because when I breathed them into existence
Their purpose was to exclaim,
Then disappear.
If the paper that was written on had souls,
Mine would not haunt me,
But sing melodies of a former serenity
That I knew and loved,
And of the muse that I have lost.
Now I just look up at the dark sky
And pretend it is a book of never-ending dreams,
Each star a note, each crack a page,
Each vanished word a spark
That once breathed, lived, and left its mark.
Jan 21
Jan 21, 2026 at 5:02 AM UTC
There might be more, but that’s the beauty of it.
It may get lost; everything is ephemeral,
but in that temporariness, you find beauty.
I wrote, read, shown, then forgotten —
not truly lost, but scattered across memory.
I once discarded poems so I wouldn't grow too attached.
And if I have lost those little poems,
It would not matter in terms of technicality,
Because when I breathed them into existence
Their purpose was to exclaim,
Then disappear.
If the paper that was written on had souls,
Mine would not haunt me,
But sing melodies of a former serenity
That I knew and loved,
And of the muse that I have lost.
Now I just look up at the dark sky
And pretend it is a book of never-ending dreams,
Each star a note, each crack a page,
Each vanished word a spark
That once breathed, lived, and left its mark.
i will forever cherish those poems that i have lost, for they shaped who i am today.
