I’m sure you have to go through some moral stripping process to get where you get.
To give up the world, to sit on a hill, on a blanket of stars, and realize that you shouldn’t look back.
You know the sort of process.
The one that strips at your soul and lets you embrace long dormant feelings of cowardliness.
When the jar filled with fire lit dreams that drift on paper-thin wings,
Shines brightest on our windowsills,
In the dead of night.
Though those will never be free to join real stars in the midnight sky.
And in this moment, we feel best,
An illusion-drenched salvation burned onto the back of our hands and on the tips of our tongues,
That gives us new lenses to gaze through, and new lips to speak with, though we still harbor our old tongues,
And the world tastes just as bitter as it did before.