Art by Tanya Shatseva
I was a star back then, when I still
danced in constellations,
sailing through tides of dark,
happily with my own kin.
I played the part of a deceased relative,
and that of a guide in dark,
for writers I was another poem,
and for the helpless, a hopeful spark.
But my kin left,
as time passed by, and they left
for distant lands, as I sat still,
watching the dark grow over me.
Moons and suns mocked me for my disgrace,
and it grew colder, darker, and heavier,
until I cried stardust,
and shed skin that many a man called rainbow rust.
Like moss the dark grew over my skin,
and with claws I tried to scrape it off,
until blood leaked from under them,
hardening my heart that was once soft.
I screamed but no voice came out,
I threw my arms around in rage but
engraved were a few ideals on my head,
that frantically forced my mouth shut.
I grew into a black star,
that elucidated pathos and fear,
a black hole that sucked every emotion out
of the most jubilant and joyous.
I now feed upon the suns and the stars whole,
the planets like marble balls roll down my throat,
and I belch glitter into the universe,
a nebula in space that thus floats.
A black hole I had become,
from a star that ceased to exist.
I now sit downtrodden under constellations and suns,
with hopes and joys that no longer persist.
been pretty long,
kinda disappointed that this poem sounds vague