In the trunk a relic of summers long past

In the trunk, a relic of summers long past,

a child's unicorn, bright but now torn,

plastic curled at edges, dreams made to last,

yet here it sits, a ghost of the worn.

It mocks me, a laugh trapped beneath layers,

with fading colors like memories once bold,

every creak in its spine echoes lost prayers—

when did I stop dreaming? When did I fold?

It should float in a pool, beneath sun’s warm ray,

but instead, it lingers where I can’t let go,

yet in its ridiculous form, I still sway,

between childish delight and the weight of woe.