She Became One With The Sky’s Constellation
For all the world to see
She awakens to hearing her name whispered
When she realises it is the night stars calling,
She is bathed in her friend’s light, the moon
Their exciting glow and smiles enthralling.
***
Her bed is highlighted in their starry lights
Bursts of shades of pink and scattered greys,
And she listens closely as they whisper at her
As their words and light set her skin ablaze.
***
“Please do not try to convince me to hold on,
As I wish to let go of all that keeps me caged,”
She called up to her friends, asking for help
As she needs to unlock her shackled outrage.
***
She trusts the nightly moon and bright stars
Knowing they keep her darkest secrets hidden,
But she needs more from this unlikely friendship
Although she’s aware this friendship’s forbidden.
***
“Will I ever be able to clean off this dirty stain
Foreshadowing me from my haunting colours,”
She mournfully cries, hoping for a real solution
To remove the stains so her heart recovers.
***
“I need to return to the others waiting in the meadow
Those weary warriors that hold matching scars,
My kind that proudly display their horrid wounds
That are as deep as their dreams,” she tells the stars.
***
“From the meadow we’ll silently merge with the night
We will become one with the sky’s constellations,
Blended in beautiful friendship for all the world to see,”
She promises the moon we’ll be one in celebrations.
***
She begs for this to happen, pleading mournfully
Requesting the surrounding forest take up her plea,
Their answer is a quiet sigh, knowing she’d ask
But hoping instead she would wordlessly flee.
***
The moon and stars had become strangely silent
While the forest trees and nightly scattered clouds,
Watched as her requested morning colours shone
As the early natural mists covered her in shrouds.
**********************************************
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Originally posted on Medium
About the Creator
Colleen Millsteed
My first love is poetry — it’s like a desperate need to write, to free up space in my mind, to escape the constant noise in my head. Most of the time the poems write themselves — I’m just the conduit holding the metaphorical pen.
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