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Maria Mitea Oct 2020
is not about how deep i love you

it is about me, being a little firefly
now resting in the grass
Quinn Baumeister Jan 2016
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.

— The End —