I climbed the hill of all I thought I craved,
With calloused feet and dreams by hunger paved.
Each summit whispered, “Here, at last, you’ll rest,”
Yet still, unrest beat fiercely in my chest.
The rose I reached for with such fervent hand
Had thorns more eloquent than I had planned.
Its fragrance faded long before the bloom,
And left me groping shadows in the room.
Gold turned to ash when held too long, too tight,
And laughter dimmed beneath the chandelier’s light.
What wealth, what wine, what song could ever fill
The quiet ache that lingers, lingers still?
For joy, I learned, is not in what we claim,
But fleeting—like a candle in the rain.
I wore success like robes of woven pride,
Yet felt a beggar shivering inside.
The world adored the mask I let them see,
While silence whispered who I used to be.
A throne may lift the body, not the soul,
And not all victories render one whole.
I speak not out of sorrow, but of truth—
For discontent has walked with me since youth.
It is no curse, but rather, keen insight—
That what we seek may vanish in the night.
So if you ask what peace the journey lends—
Perhaps it is to know that longing never ends.
