My Last Poem

I was once a poet,
a weaver of words,
a dreamer who bottled the stars in ink.
Now, my hands tremble—
the quill slips, the pages curl,
and the sky I painted turns to ash.

I was once a good boy,
a candle in the wind,
soft, warm, glowing with hope.
But the world blew too hard—
now I flicker, now I fade,
now I am wax melted beyond repair.

I was once a topper,
a mountain standing tall,
they called me the brightest peak in sight.
But echoes bounce off empty halls,
and I realize—
I was never a mountain, just a stone,
waiting to be kicked...