In this city, stars don't come out every night
In this city, the rooftop is black with soot.
Every night I would sit atop a streetlight,
Pretending the stars were below this,
And the blackness above, an abyss.
In this city, I had learned and forgotten,
To fall in love with the discarded and rotten.
The remnants of people they'd left behind,
When they looked up, looking for stars, Found that streetlights, lacked the shine.
In this city, the stars come out once a year.
The rooftop is painted by a million flares.
They fly from the floor with a whistle,
In the soot sky they flash and sizzle.
Painting the choked sky with galaxies.
Then they wink out of existence one by one,
Their glory lived, their work is done.
Adding their ashes to the black rooftop,
Ensuring the tradition will never stop.
Until we tire of smelling smoke,
In exchange for momentary flashes of hope.
This year the stars didn't burst,
I sat on my streetlamp, in understanding,
I shared a nod with the light beneath.
We had had enough of adding to the black,
The abyss called the sky,
We're taking it back.
आप पढ़ रहे हैं
At The Corner Of My Eye
कविताMore poetry involving myself, my friends, my anime and my incredible addiction to the aforementioned 2. A few rants. My second compilation. To everyone who viewed voted and commented on my first work, A Left Brain, a MASSIVE HERCULEAN THANK YOU...
