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The Death of Dreams

The Death of Dreams

By Tara Grímravn

It feels hard to breathe —
as if my lungs have
forgotten the rhythm,
abandoned the will to expand.

Is this
death by broken heart?
Has my heart finally understood
what my head has screamed
again and again:

Let go

Maybe now—peace.
The deathless quiet of darkness.

I am ready.

I want to stop breathing.
I can’t keep breathing
for love that exists
only in dreams.

And there were so,
so many dreams.
Once vibrant,
once boisterous.
Now still,
now silent.

They fester around me —
rot clinging like shadows,
filling my lungs
with bitter perfume.

Perhaps one more breath
could bring light —
but no,
it would burn,
and I would rather
the darkness take me whole.

Hope is a curse —
a fiend,
a liar,
whispering futility.

Let me be a sacrifice.
Let me fall.
Let me fall into entropy,
into silence,
into darkness’ deathless depths.

It feels hard to breathe.

I will not fight it.


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