A little boat. A thousand oceans. We rushed to grow up before we knew what growing would cost. Some dreams found wings; some found walls. Some were rerouted by a life that never asked where we were headed. The hooded keeper watches, memory branching through her, guarding truths only time can translate. Maybe the dream changed. Maybe you did. But if it still knows your name, still stirs your pulse, it was never gone. It was waiting for you to remember that possibility grew up with you.
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© Slam Poetry by Lucyalia 2024–2026. copyrighted. Use requires credit to
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