I was in a paradoxical state.
I was a traveller lost.
I was a book with its pages torn haphazardly.
When will I walk on the path that was awash with pinpricks of starlight?
When will I gather the shards of my soul into a coherent picture?
When will I pen my story without using my blood and tears as ink?
When will I be free of these chains of aloneness I built for myself?
When will I answer the question that is me?
(shortened version)
YOU ARE READING
Secrets I Whisper to the Stars at Night
PoetryThe stars, my anchor and friend Keeping my secrets as I spill them Into the night sky Together with the moon, They keep me company.
