I'm My Own Epitaph

behind me,
a cemetery of dreams,
each one a headstone
weathered by
the acid rain
of reality.
i've tried to forget,
to let the dirt
of time cover them,
but the itch persists –
a nagging sense
that I must exhume
the remnants,
no matter how futile.
the urge
is a junkie's craving,
a hunger
that gnaws
at my gut,
refusing to be satiated.

i wander through the rows
of forgotten aspirations,
the ones that withered
like unwatered plants.
the headstones
bear the names
of what could've been:
"poet laureate,"
"rockstar,"
"loved."
the dates of birth and death
are etched
in the same stone,
a reminder that some dreams
are stillborn.
i kick at the dirt,
feeling the weight
of what's been lost,
the weight
of what will never be.

as I dig,
the earth yields its secrets,
reluctantly.
the dreams I uncover
are like fossils,
brittle and fragmented.
i hold them up
to the light,
and they disintegrate,
leaving only the faintest
impression of what
they once were.
rhe urge to resurrect them
is a cruel joke,
a taunt from the universe.
i'm left with the detritus
of what could've been,
the shards of a life unlived.

and yet, I continue to dig,
driven by the same
madness that fuels
the addict's quest
for the next fix.
perhaps it's the hope
that one of these fossils
will retain its essence,
that one of these dreams
will still hold the power
to transform.
but deep down,
i know it's just a lie,
a comforting fiction
to keep me from facing
the abyss of my own
insignificance.

the graveyard stretches out
beore me,
a seemingly endless expanse
of what could've been.
i'll keep digging,
fueled by the futility
of my desires,
until the dirt
covers me, too.
in the end,
it's not the dreams that matter,
but the act of digging,
the futile,
beautiful,
heartbreaking act
of trying to revive
what's been lost.