I’ve never walked through Paris in the rain,
Where cobblestones reflect the amber light,
While lovers whisper secret’s sweet refrain—
Yet here I sit, composing through the night.

The canvas awaits, untouched by trembling hand,
Though visions riot like wildflowers in my mind,
I trade my brush for keyboard’s cold command,
Leaving brilliance unborn, in silence confined.

I used to chase the sunset’s dying blaze,
When time felt endless, like the summer’s golden trace.
Now deadlines drown dreams in a labyrinth of haze,
As freedom chokes in work’s self-consuming race.

The irony cuts deeper than the blade:
We dream of living while our lives decay,
Each “someday” is a promise we’ve betrayed,
Tomorrow steals what we could do today.

I wish I still believed in fairy tales,
When hope was currency I freely spent,
Before the world revealed its bitter scales,
And every wish unraveled into discontent.

So here’s the truth that makes my spirit ache:
The things undone will haunt us till we break,
While time, that thief, grins wide at every mistake—
We vanish, chasing shadows we’re forbidden to wake.