The
Stars Are Made Of Ash
The
stars are made of ash
and
dust and ancient bones
and
what is left
when
death for stars has come and gone.
They
are not the souls of righteous travelers,
nor
stepping stones to paradise,
but
fossils in the sky, their light the ghosts
of
those that died millenniums ago,
light
that burns my eyes, predicts my death.
And
even now my flame grows close;
it
barely warms so little left
as
my shoes lie empty below the bed
and
songs are sung outside.
Women
move about the rooms --
women
I don't even know:
"Do
you want this on or off?"
"Do
you want your pillow soft?"
then
leave my sight too soon
while
snow descends like stars.
I'm
ready for this ending,
this
lawless heart to rest,
to
turn to dust and ash and whatever's left
when
breath leaves from my sleeping
and
the twilight passes on.
For
I have heard the ghosts of stars,
their
stinging cheerless song,
and
I am weary from the pull of it,
impatient
to be gone.
