Ink and Insight

Mosaic of Scars

Dust motes dance in the forgotten corners of ambition,

once vibrant dreams, now faded photographs tucked in a worn box.

The air hangs heavy with the scent of "what ifs" and "should haves,"

a bittersweet fragrance clinging to the tattered map of my soul.

I trace the well-worn lines on a palm that never grasped the stars,

a symphony of disappointment playing on a loop in my weary heart.

Each sunrise a stark reminder of battles fought and lost,

each sunset a canvas painted in shades of resignation.

But somewhere, beneath the rubble of shattered aspirations,

a flicker persists, a spark refusing to be extinguished.

A voice, faint yet insistent, whispers, "It's not too late to rewrite."

The process is slow, an arduous climb up a crumbling mountain.

Each step a battle against the gravitational pull of regret,

each breath a testament to the stubborn resilience within.

I gather the fragments of dreams, chipped and imperfect,

and begin to piece together a new mosaic of purpose.

It may not be the grand masterpiece I once envisioned,

but a quieter composition, imbued with the wisdom of scars.

The world may not applaud, the spotlight may remain dim,

but the melody hums true, a testament to the journey within.

For in the ashes of disillusionment, a new phoenix may rise,

bearing the scars of its past, yet soaring with newfound grace.