The Atlas of Lost Souls

In the dust of forgotten lands,
An explorer found with trembling hands,
A map that swirled in ink and flame,
A chart to guide him through the same.

No simple map of earth or sky,
But one that traced the deepened sigh,
The places where the lost souls weep,
In shadows where their dreams still sleep.

Each line upon the parchment drawn,
A journey long since lost to dawn,
Each mark a place where regret resides,
Where hope was buried, and love had died.

The first was a shore, no light in sight,
A sailor lost in endless night.
He’d sailed for years to chase a dream,
But found no port, no harbor’s gleam.

His ship had sunk beneath the waves,
His heart remained, a heart that craves,
The wind that whispers, “You could be,
A man who dared to set you free.”

The explorer moved with careful pace,
Towards the next, an empty space.
A garden once, now wilted, dry,
Where a gardener’s hopes had come to die.

She planted seeds that never grew,
And watered dreams that never flew.
In the earth, she buried her care,
But the roots never took, the garden fair.

Her soul remains in that garden deep,
A dreamer’s longing that will not sleep.
For in the soil, her heart’s desire,
To see her blooms reach higher, higher.

Beyond the garden, a mountain stood,
Its peak once climbed by one who could,
A poet's quill had touched the sky,
But the world passed by with no reply.

His words were lost in time’s cruel stream,
A thousand verses, fading dream.
His soul is tethered to that peak,
An echo of a voice too weak.

Each place he searched, each climb he took,
For fame, for glory, for a book,
But all he found was the silent air,
The world too busy to even care.

And so the map led on, and on,
The explorer’s heart, now slowly drawn,
To places where the lost souls tread,
In paths of dreams that once were led.

He came upon a vast, cold plain,
Where the stars had never shone again.
A painter stood in endless dusk,
Her brushes worn, her palette rust.

She dreamed of colors, vibrant, bright,
Of skies that dazzled in the night.
But time had stolen her vision’s gleam,
Her canvas bare, her fading dream.

Her soul, it wanders through the mist,
The colors lost in an artist’s fist.
She paints her hopes on winds that pass,
But no one sees her fleeting glass.

Through valleys deep and deserts wide,
The explorer moved with steady stride,
Each place he sought, each soul he found,
The stories lost, without a sound.

A soldier waits where the rivers run,
A mother grieves for a war undone,
A lover stands in a rain-drenched lane,
While time erases their deepest pain.

Yet in their eyes, a silent plea,
A question no one dares to see:
"Did we fail, or was it fate,
That left us standing at the gate?"

The explorer stopped, a tear did fall,
For he had sought the souls of all,
But now he saw with clearer sight,
That he, too, wandered in the night.

For in their loss, he saw his own,
A heart that bled, a mind unknown.
The map had led him far and wide,
But the lost souls were not outside.

The paths were etched in his own heart,
The dreams that shattered, fell apart.
He saw that he, like them, had missed
The life he longed for, and dismissed.

The Atlas closed, the journey ceased,
But in his soul, the search increased.
For lost souls live in every mind,
In dreams that leave, in paths behind.

And so he walked, with quiet grace,
A seeker now of his own place.
For the Atlas of Lost Souls had shown,
The greatest loss is to be unknown.

- Khushi Kaul