by Mishal I. S., 18
Stars are an etude.
From earth, we call them every kind of music and poetry—
But the meter holds steady, not free verse.
Compelled into a sort of
Mechanical synchronicity,
The chamber of a flayed heart forced open and
Its contents stuffed, stifled,
Into the sterile compartment of a
Windup machine.
You accustom yourself, I suppose.
You endure, like clockwork
Harmonies prescribed and orbits proscribed
Deviation jilted back down by the
Glaring press of gravity
Is it any wonder, then
That you took one look
At stars rocked into their indolent languor
By the insistent sway and hiss of time
Took one look, your last of its kind—
And, spurred by the passing smile of a comet’s tail
Trailing ice and smoke emancipation
You sputtered into heat, and spun
And fell?
(And was the world so much brighter
When you woke?)
Los Angeles, California
Bridge Ink 