Don’t point to the darkness, but to the stars.
This probably isn’t something you’re supposed to say at a moment like this, but I think the moon is seriously overrated.
Betelgeuse, Achenar. Orion. Aquila. Centre the Cross and you have a steady compass. But there’s no compass for my ever disoriented soul, only ever beckoning ghost lights. In the one sure direction, to the one sure end.
The sky’s always falling. Always. You’ll see. People have no idea.
We are not from here, my dear. So:
Let the flames take over our bodies,
’cause I wanna merely burn with you.
And we can dance until we become ashes,
but don’t you dare leave me when we
become pointless dust.
Because this is when we can
finally blow away with the wind,
back to that place where love
was once real…
Zoe let the poetry flow over her, like shadows on water, sunlight against stone: timeworn words shaped like stars, like shells, like the ruins of lost temples, soft as the breaths of mystics.
Father, it’s Wistala. Wistala.
Lying flat on my back, with my toes dipped into the lake, I stared at the stars for a second. I guess I should have pondered their beauty and realized the rarity of a sky unsaturated by city lights, or something. But it occurred to me that you could probably see stars from the vast majority of the earth. It was city lights that were actually rare.
Cold comradeship do stars provide.
They light the closer, inner side
Of night’s vast weight, which, chill and clear,
Pulls on us like some puppeteer.
Its unseen threads to heads and hearts
Attached, it acts us through our parts,
From birth’s first cry to bent old age,
Upon our distant, tiny stage.
Whoever designed this city built it to complement the setting sun as perfectly as the stars complement the night.