She liked to play games,
Not in the malicious way,
And not in a way that didn’t make me want to stay,

She played like the way people feel the need to light up the night’s sky in the cities that she loved,
To make what is there different,
To shine a comforting, milky, glow over the natural state of sky that is known well by those
Whose veins pump a wealth of that dense black nothing into their chests until their hearts are heavy,
And their fun loving games are just an actor’s play,
Complete with a weekly Sunday matinee,
Featuring scenes from the girl who they think about too much during their day to day;
So just let it be what it is.

Let the sky at night make you feel small,
Like a strand of hair lost in a shifting pit of snakes,

Let your fear be too overwhelmed by awe,
To speak about things like you were on a hazy carrousel,
A fun up and down ride with no real need to dwell,
Because we are young and still have many coins left in our pockets to feed the machine,

Things do look funny when you pass by them quickly,
But if you would stop the ride,
And take the time,
To focus fully on the things outside,
You may still find yourself spinning.

The truth is, is that the truth is, as direct and striking as a visit with the night’s sky without the comfort of our own lights,
With a black that’s not broadcast,
Like the sleek coats of dark and powerful horses buried by the overwhelming snow of a crashing roof,
Trapped and still for an untold amount of time,
Because the memory of the image is too emotional to be measured by things as precise as seconds, minutes, hours.

They were poetry from a beautiful girl,
Who liked to play games,

She made my week by stepping off her carrousel,
And ridding on mine,
Until the golden sun fell,
And I ran out of time,
Too bad she died.