b r o k e n p i e c e s o f s t a r
(or the fragments of your memory?)
The night, she sees through you –
as if you were a transparent veil,
as if she were a mind-reader;
the night, she knows you well, from
all the times you stayed up,
between the pallid sheets (so clean, so pure, so unlike you)
sitting up, sitting stiff on the goose-feather pillow,
wishing, wishing,
(but there are no stars to wish upon, why do you bother?)
hoping, hoping,
(but though hope has wings, the window is shut tight and none can fly in)
for a happy ending – like those read in Andromeda's old books
but don't let Father know or he'll fly into rage and burn them
burning isn't enough
disapparating isn't enough
nothing is enough when Father's angry.
fairy tales would make him angry – he says
they are lies, nothing but lies.
You need a star to wish upon,
Why not the shooting star that has
Flown past your shut window
(now, go open it, let the hope fly in)
and the star fall past
and hope restored-
by means of a single shooting star.
(...but is it really there,
or are you merely hallucinating?)
Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket, never let it fade away. -Lee Pockriss & Paul Vance