I pressed my hands
against a pane of glass
that stretched from
light to dark.
It seems
that I am forever
held apart
from those stars,
whispering the name
in my heart.
I’ve tried pushing harder
and though it bent,
it would bend no further…
not enough to break
and let pour the stars
amidst the shards,
glass asunder.
In the depths of my memory,
lurks the truth,
though quite well hidden;
these stars are reflections
from my side of the glass…
from the past, behind me,
not beacons,
nor glimmering treausures.
Desperate for reprieve,
always forgetting,
one can run to future,
but never from the past.
There’s no escaping.
So, I will keep pressing
on the wall of my
self-constructed prison.
Hopefully,
enough pressure
will crack the glass
and let me slip through
(probably in shreds and tatters)
to make my escape
into the void
where only the
blackest night
matters
and the tiny fires
behind me
will be extinguished
by the glass cut
blood splatters.
©️ Obol, 2019.
