The Death of Stars
The twinkling patterns of night
in the sky’s blissful muse
have been eaten up by a misty chemical haze
and our mind’s blissful muse.
We greatly prefer a murdered soul
wandering like a ghost – naked
along the high skyline – twinkling
with earthly stars -
all his art put behind their bars.
Swaying sublimely in a sardonic dance,
trilling bent fingers behind Venetian blinds;
with dried coffee spoons hidden in a heap of barley,
recalling our mind’s images that our pen’s tip finds.
Only to darken that light of hope
in which these people blind.