Stars don't fix our destinies, but they fix our perspective
A little. Consider the stars as poetry critics. Would they forgive
Those poems not written to be heard, not for declaiming,
Slamming, singing, accompaniment, or chanting? The poems
Composed by a mind in the dark for a mind in the dark
To read by lamplight, waking no one, not a living soul,
Not a living tongue? I stood at my window soon, like all views,
To be lost to me, me to it, at some hour just far enough past midnight
To be considered small. No one was listening. No one was asking. No one
Was bothering anyone outside of my skull full of ghosts and those lights,
Those stars that neither forgave nor criticized anything, anyone, never.
No comments:
Post a Comment