To never live again.

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The stars hold onto you, they want you to stay.
Like wanton winds, can’t hold them at bay,
Their voices beckoning, the timber loud,
And you shout, no definition to those broken contours,
That line the air, in definite daring, in reckless care,
And it’s the voice of all of them, who wish they
Could be awake to shout at the stars and be reckless.
Who dream of days where the night is warm,
The air sticky-sweet, where they can spare a day or two
From work to gaze at the stars, instead of coming home,
Tired, bones rattling like empty straws left on checkered floors,
That shift away obediently when their maker comes to sweep
Them into the trash.





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