The starry skies of the coldest spring
Tonight, I may Not fathom heaven. My eyes cannot adapt To the bright of those myriad stars To see beyond them, and question The lying emptiness, there, waiting, As anything other than Nothingness.
The sky Spoon feeds me Too much silver, and My tongue writhes in Desperate expelling, So to not speak Your name.
My second star to the right, And straight on till morning,
I no longer see The constellation we created, And I tossed the map toward our Neverland, Because I don't think I'll be flying, Anytime soon in this Hailstorm.
--- 3-5-2026, M.A. Tempels © Prompted by: @poppiesandpromises















