And so, it had been assumed
Anticipated, scribbled with promise
I couldn’t see the stars
Amid piles of my paper scraps
I couldn’t create a sermon, a delightful psalm
At least a near-finished poem
For my Sunday morning musings.
And then, it went on
A deep-rooted dirge of nothingness
The futile search for a stealthy cadence.
I couldn’t see the stars
Their floating images, dying out
As forgotten motifs in the artless sky.
And so, it had been assumed
I couldn’t see the stars
Amid rubbles of the metamorphosed world.
But in my frayed edges, galaxies are born
Clamoring for heaven of a different kind.
*








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