The Unlived Lives

There was a child who might have danced 

barefoot in the summer dusk, 

her laughter rising with the fireflies, 

her life humming something soft in the meadow— 

but never did. 

There was a child who might have asked 

a thousand questions about the stars, 

kept his soul awake with whys, 

believed in answers like bedtime stories— 

but never did. 

There was a child who might have painted 

oceans on the inside of his walls, 

made ships from crayons and faith, 

and sailed beyond the reach of grief—

but never did. 

There was a child who might have wept 

only for broken toys, 

whose wounds healed with time, 

whose nightmares ended with morning light— 

but never did. 

There was a child who might have learned 

the weight of kindness, 

how a single held hand could keep the dark at bay, 

how not to be afraid to live— 

but never did.

And the world, 

stone-faced and busy, 

folded them into its silence— 

as seeds in pockets, 

waiting for ground soft enough 

to grow again.