Dead dreams haunted
the hollow realm,
where forgotten hopes withered
beneath a sky
of perpetual dusk.
Once, this place had been
crowded with life,
with hope,
with the vibrant pulse of chance.
But those days were long gone,
and now the only inhabitants
were ghosts
of forgotten desires.
Regret lingered
as sharp and suffocating as smoke,
tainting everything
it touched.
Dead dreams lingered
in the corners,
hiding in the cracks of walls,
in the dust that coated
every room.
The house was falling apart,
its bones creaking
under the strain of time.
The windows were broken,
the doors hanging loose
on their hinges,
and yet something remained—
a presence, invisible,
undeniable,
watched from the shadows.
Dead dreams whispered
through the air,
soft voices,
insistent.
They spoke
of what could have been,
of paths not taken,
of futures lost.
Their words wound
through the halls,
pulling deeper
into the heart
of decay.
The walls seemed to close in,
the rooms growing smaller,
more suffocating.
The air was thick with dust,
with the weight
of years.
Dead dreams never indeed die;
they fade,
becoming one with shadows,
with silence.
The house would stand forever,
a monument
to what was lost,
to what could never
be reclaimed.
In the end,
it would claim all,
just as it had claimed
those who came before.
There was no escape
from the dead dreams.
They lingered on
long afterlife
had left.
Esther Elizabeth Racah
