If I was a religious man,
I would ask who made the stars.
Took a needle and pin-pricked the dark fabric of the sky
If I was a scientist,
I would ask how the stars stay alive.
Fascinated by gasses and reactions countless miles away
If I was an explorer,
I would pine to see the stars.
Experience the danger and beauty firsthand, like no one else
But I am just a humble man of words
The only question I have in regards to the stars
Is how they wound up in your eyes.
I hoped to turn you into a poem
Sequester your soul into a sonnet
Contain your qualities in couplets
Herd your hopes into haiku
Because poems, I can control
I can preserve; can keep in stasis
I can keep the concept of you that I crave
I don't have to face the reality that I chose wrong
That you never were the person I thought
You are no more a poem than I am
Your meter and rhyme cannot be captured
I am ashamed that I tried to do so
Where beauty fades
into twisting willows
and coolest zephyrs grow
into gusting billows
In the land where every (and no)
thing is seen
that is where
we find our dreams.
I soliliquize and apologize in the same breath
Not that I didn’t mean what I said
Just that I don’t think you wanted to know that I meant it
In the moments where my façade breaks and my feelings shine through
I’m left with panic that I’ve ruined things with you
— The End —