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Feb 2018
At night,
When nothing could save me from my head,
I opened my eyes to see the night sky
Eery green glow on world weary white
Why do they always have pentagram points
Enlarged or minuscule, like prism cutouts
Windows to the world above?

If you concentrate,
You can plot the lines between them
Like the Greeks and Romans did,
Fathers and children of all mankind.
This bedroom was a blank canvas for a child's hands
To find and mark different constellations
Her own legends
Her own mythos
Monsters and fairies, princes and kings.

When she looks up at the ceiling,
She can see our myths
Etched in the spaces between the pools of light
Intangible to most, perhaps,
Felt across a breach
The dark span of country roads and motorways
Train tracks tracing patterns on skin
And sometimes on the darkest nights
I can see nothing but stars
And can't make out the shape of your face
This isn't a simple science.

Sometimes my light does not seem to bridge the gap
Sometimes yours seems faint, too,
But we both burn holes in the cracked plaster
Some days, this is the easiest thing in the world
On others, we might as well be light years apart.

That little girl still looks though
Spread eagled on a ballerina duvet, she still smiles
Watching the lights shift
Playing dot-to-dot with fate
Until she gently falls asleep
Dreaming of castles she has yet to see
And princes she has yet to meet.
A poem about long-distance and glow in the dark sticker stars.
Eleanor Webster
Written by
Eleanor Webster  20/F
       Avi, cs and Eleanor Webster
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