Clouds swam in the vast midnight sea of stars, while the trees conquered the land alongside their keens. They danced with the gentle breeze who embraced all that breathes with its cold arms. The crickets broke the quietness of the night as they lullaby the asleep.
The boy sat on dewy grass and uttered no word since he arrived. His eyes were locked on the sky. He was still and silent until he raised his hand as though he was attempting to touch the stars. His companion, a peculiar individual who embodied the void, became confused by his sudden actions. He gestured at the boy, asking what he was doing, for he has no ability to speak.
"I often raise my hand before I go to bed," said the boy. "Imagining my room has no ceiling, and the stars can see me, then hold my hand, and leave stardust once they let go."
"I have explained this many times to others before. However, they still find it strange. Because no one can morph themselves as someone else to know what the world looks like in their eyes."
His companion gestured once more, and the boy understood it quickly.
"Yes, you are right," he answered, then sighed. "How I wish that life was kinder."
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.
