Harlem, by Langston Hughes


What happens to a dream deferred?
       Does it dry up
       like a raisin in the sun?
       Or fester like a sore—
       And then run?
       Does it stink like rotten meat?
       Or crust and sugar over—
       like a syrupy sweet?
       Maybe it just sags
       like a heavy load.
       Or does it explode?

poems.one - Langston Hughes

Langston Hughes