Lost Dreams

I wrote this poem after one of the last conversations I had with my grandfather.

He told me about his dream of becoming a singer — how he once went to Mumbai carrying that hope with him, believing life might unfold differently. It did not happen the way he imagined, yet somehow, he never completely let the dream die. He found smaller ways to keep it alive: joining singing groups, performing after work, holding onto music whenever life allowed him to.

And I think that conversation stayed with me because it made me realize something quietly terrifying:

dreams do not disappear just because we ignore them.

They wait.

Sometimes softly. Sometimes painfully.

This poem is for anyone standing at the edge of their own life, wondering whether it is too late, too risky, or too unrealistic to chase what they truly want.

Because maybe failing at a dream hurts.

But carrying the ghost of an unlived life hurts far more.