Dreams Die To Resurrect

In the crucible of soul, where passions ignite, Dreams are born, like phoenixes, in morning light. With wings outstretched, they soar, on eagle's might, Until the tempests of reality take flight. Like autumn leaves, they wither, fade, and fall, Their vibrant hues, now dulled, beyond recall. The winter of despair, with icy grip, Seems to extinguish, the flame that once did rip. Yet, in the silence, a whispered truth remains, That death precedes rebirth, in life's cyclical pains. For dreams to rise anew, they must first decay, Like seeds that rot, to sprout, in a brighter day. In this dark night of the soul, where shadows roam, A transformation stirs, like a quiet, inner tone. The ashes of defeat, become the fertile ground, Where resurrected dreams, with renewed strength, resound. Like Lazarus, they rise, from the tomb's dark night, With eyes reopened, to a brighter, radiant light. Their resurrection, a testament to the heart, That even in death, lies a dormant, hidden part. Through trials and fire, they're tempered, refined, And emerge, like gold, with a strength, divine. For dreams that die, are not lost, but reborn, In a cycle of growth, where wisdom is sworn. In this odyssey of the soul, we find our way