These dead stars
cannot burn again,
and they never
will.
Do you not know it?
Tell me nothing
of what they said,
for there are only
corpses of once
exquisite, waltzing
flames
laying on their cold
surface.
YOU ARE READING
Burning Home
Poetry[ a poetry collection about grieving and becoming. ] I wish for the day when flowers no longer sink in water. When their eyes gaze not ignominy but proud; even dust can be seen as gold. And exhaustion feels rewarding.
