If the stars should ask me
Why I write no more for you;
Why I suffer no more from insufferable pain;
Why aren’t my words pregnant with poetry for you;
Why I no longer look up to you, as a mortal towards an angel of heaven.
I’ll tell them, I held you in the highest regard,
More so than the brightest of them, the Northern star.
But oh so never badly deceived was I,
For you were no more than a cold, frozen world,
Who longed not for her own Sun,
But another star of a lesser cosmic fire in a galaxy nearby.
© The Flowers of Art