The sky is like a table
I’m hiding under.
But it’s also made of glass,
and black clouds fall
through its cracks.
Scrawny sparrows peck,
luckless, in the dead grass,
and are routed by a swarm of crows,
who get what they’re after.
Night arrives, it grows dark,
and the day is lost
like friends from my youth
who went places
with names I can't remember.
Then a lone star rises,
Flickering in the thick night:
It’s what we're made of.
But it sees nothing,
And it desires nothing,
and soon it will burn to ashes.
It doesn't care.
It's doing what it was meant
to do. It rises.
It burns. It flickers.