Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jul 2017
There are clouds to my right,
massive and grey,
they inch forward across the sky.
Beneath them a stationary sea of stone and cement.
Unmoving waves that’d swallow me if I dared leave my perch.
Around me are noises.
Epic echoes that lend themselves to imaginings of war zones.
In the distance I see flashes
Brief man made stars of red, white, and blue.

The clouds move in.
A silent rolling mass.
The temporary stars try to touch them.
Their lives are too short.

Shining down on me,
The moon smiles,
She knows what it’s like to be temporary.
To need the strength of others to shine.
To be born on path you can’t escape.
I don’t.

The star makers don’t.
The builders and sailors don’t.
We might think we do.
We think we do.

I glance behind me.
To beat up a room that is only ever filled with lonely nights.
To an apartment part of a tradition of temporary dwellers,
With a floor more ocean than the roofs around me will ever be.
New stars reach higher.
I see one peek out from behind a cloud.

My flatmates join me.
We watch the fireworks together.
Written by
Mottel Zirkind  25/Cisgender Male
(25/Cisgender Male)   
267
 
Please log in to view and add comments on poems