Echoes of a Mortal Dream

In the fevered bloom of flesh,

We are summoned—

By longing, by lust, by the illusion of joy.

We dance in the rapture of touch,

Only to dissolve

Into the silence of scattered bones

And the sour breath of decay.

The path from birth to dust

Is paved not with wisdom,

But with fleeting pleasures

And the slow erosion of grace.

Downward we drift—

Cradled in dreams,

Buoyant in youth’s golden lie,

Bent by labor’s weight in manhood,

Fractured by age’s brittle hand,

Pierced by illness,

And finally—

Undone by death’s quiet grip.

Is this not the cruel jest of being?

A spark mistaken for flame,

A journey mistaken for purpose,

A life mistaken for meaning—

Its error unveiled

In the aching clarity of its end.