The Falling Star

The Falling Star

It burned across a restless, watching sky,

A wound of light that split the breath of night,

No wish was made, I only stood and watched,

As something failed that once had held so bright.

It did not fall for beauty or for grace,

It fell because its fire could not stay,

A quiet end dressed up in borrowed glow,

A dying thing pretending not to fray.

I watched it fade behind the chimney line,

Past roofs that held the heat of someone’s day,

No sound, no cry, no voice to mark its loss,

Just one more light the dark could take away.

The sky closed in as if it never burned,

As if no brilliance ever dared to break,

And I stood still beneath that empty vast,

Feeling the cold it left behind to take.

We call it wonder, something rare and pure,

We dress it up as magic from afar,

But I have seen the truth beneath its fall,

It is not beauty, it is a dying star.

So when you look and whisper hopeful dreams,

Remember what that fleeting light has been,

Not every spark that cuts across the night,

Is something new, some never should begin.

And still I stand where silence holds the sky,

Where endings fall and no one speaks their name,

A witness to the quiet death of fire,

Where every star is only ash and flame.

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