Where Dreams Come to Die

Where Dreams Come to Die

A Poem by J.S. Oh

Some graves were grand, paved in marble.
Others were humble, quite pitiful. 

In the end, grand or humble, it all meant the same. 

Absolutely nothing.

The hem of her robe swept over the paved stones.

Here lies the mother.

I remember the day of my birth How Mother's hands trembled as she held me.
Who was she to dare to bring to life such a thing. 

For so long, she had only known Despair, And to hold me in her hands felt forbidden. 

And so for a while, she kept me hidden, Feeding me with the whispers to the one she called God.

She was scared, you see, Of the change I could bring. 

The devastation of failure, The uncertainty of success.

Was I worth it all? I asked.

For the first time, I tasted Hope, she told me. 

Though it was just a hint, its sweetness was enough to cast out Despair. 

And I knew, in that moment, I wanted you near.

I had heard of this place Where the sky is eternally gray. 

I had hoped to never walk through these stones, 

To make the journey that too many had gone before, 

Yet the hem of my robe swept over the paved stones.

Here lies the artist.
Is there anything I could have done
To have made you hold me a little longer?
Perhaps, if I had been a little less grand? 
Or perhaps, if I had been a little more grand?
I once was naive and believed that everything would be all right.
Because as I grew, many others began to carry me too, 
What a curse that came to be.
The more hands that carried me, the grander I grew.
Until even those hands wavered, and one by one, they withdrew.
Some were taken by Fear, others by Death, and still others by Despair. 

And I remember 
How her hands trembled as she held me one last.
Thank you, she whispered,
For being my companion in these four walls,
The life in my prayers,
A guide in murky waters,
But you must go now, for I can carry you no longer. 
Perhaps one day, you will be born to another,
One who is stronger and wiser,
And can carry you further.

Do you regret any of it, mother?
For breathing life into me when all you knew was Despair. 

The aroma of gray 
And the crinkle of half smiles.  
This was a nice place,
As good as any for my rest. 

The hem of her robe swept over the paved stones. 

Here lies the revolutionary.
The hope of many.
Succumbed to reality.

© 2022 J.S. Oh

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I really enjoyed this and it brought to my mind the parable type of writing by Kahlil Gibran especially with the little inserts ‘Here lies the mother’ etc.
A lovely read.


Posted 2 Weeks Ago

J.S. Oh

2 Weeks Ago

Thank you so much!

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1 Review
Added on January 4, 2022
Last Updated on January 4, 2022
Tags: poetry, dreams, death


J.S. Oh
J.S. Oh

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