Dreams are fickle, bringing children to space,
A name in lights, a headline made.
Chasing purpose with untamed vigor,
But time rewrites with gentler shade.

The voices say “no,” but still you climb,
High on the thrill, the rush, the peak,
Where skies were wide, and odds were thin.
You chase the edge others would never seek.

But when the cliffs become too steep,
And dreams bend beneath the weight,
You wonder if you lost your way,
Finding the ones who relate.

Dreams never die where comfort is tested,
A life in ink, still being planned.
Doors fly open, new connections made,
And everything grows, blooming in your hand.

The Blunt Siren