Our Starry Night

A star studded black silken silence threaded overhead.

Part of the woven night, the stars- they tend to their scars, blissfully unaware.

And you don’t believe that scars can give light and that aftermath can define beauty.

If only you could see, if only you could see.




Ink blobs in brown and green,

Strings of light in sweet saccharine.

Cannonballs- some in bloom,

A cherry stained embrace, making room.

Drained by the sun and it’s bitter-sweet ways, 

This is what I found whilst looking for shade.