O little coin, O three-hundredth-ranked ambition,
I bought you at the top like a good daughter buys
the good grades, sure the effort would be seen.
You had a roadmap. You had a Discord full of frens
calling each other fam, calling the dip a gift.
I called it that too, once, out loud, to my own reflection.

Half the market's gone quiet this way, not with a crash
but a slow leak, a candle that just stops trying,
forty percent of everyone's bag sitting under
where it started, no floor to point to, no bell
that rings to say the worst has passed. My auntie
keeps a jar of buttons from coats that don't exist anymore.
Says you never know when you'll need the shape of something.
I understand her now in a language she'd never guess.

O coin, you promised utility. You promised
a use case realer than my hope for you.
The whitepaper is still there, a shrine
nobody visits, candles burned down to the wallet address.
I don't check the chart to see it rise anymore.
I check it the way you check a scar,
just to confirm it's still there, still yours,
still proof that once, briefly, ridiculously, you believed.