My mother stole the stars when I was young.
She dug them graves and built them tombs of stone
and dark replaced the light where they had hung.
The moon lamented in the sky alone.
Buried alive, the stars began to sing.
They sang me lullabies so I would dream
of when the sky was bright and burning,
when Earth was lit by constellation’s gleam.
I heard the stars and dreamed to set them free.
I longed to see them ease the lonely moon
and light the night with fire to paint the sea.
Yet they remain buried in dark and gloom;
for I was young and slept the night away.
I didn’t know dreams died with rise of day.

Our love was endless as the grains in sand,
and when the sea and wind welcomed you in
the middle of the night, across the land
I travel, wishing for your matching grin.

The waves were sweet, unlike any other,
a voice drawing spider webs on your skin,
you had the haste to forget a lover.
And I do not blame you but I wonder-

Shall I compare thee to a short lived love?
Shall I call thee but a true love still?
In flight now is nothing but a dove,
below are hunters with thirst for a ****.

My dear, we are but two stars in the sky,
soon you will see that I’ve drawn an end nigh.

Emotions are cast before blinded eyes,
To stand before the final test of time.
Will our future look on us and despise,
One hundred forty characters of rhyme?
Jaded words cast into the endless sea,
Or three words said behind a glowing screen,
Generations look back with shame and see,
Romantic nothings not one soul did mean.
The birthing of passion is all but gone,
And often are we caught up, bound, and tied,
Trading away for screens our forlorn dawn,
Lost in the sea, in the black, raging tide.
So our time shall be remembered as thus,
One hundred forty characters killed us.