A handful of stars, glass toys to decorate the sanctuary of the frailest; razor-sharp stars, as I squeeze tighter they cut deeper, infecting my bleeding wound with microscopic dust that will be there, invisible but painful long after my wounds are scars and the stars are gone.  I punish them instead myself.

My vexed approach brought tearful questions; deer’s eyes, startled, staring from afar, there in the depth, in the blackness; a sanctuary no more – broken by a figure of trust and unquestionable love. The destroyer of stars, annihilator of these objects of light manipulation which transform the coldness of the bitter world into a soft blue glow that calms. Oh how I crave for them to be such.

But in the stars I know the worst; I see the color of despair, black and cold and dead. By the stars I know their fate, for I have become the pitiful witness of its colossal beginning and its silent ending.

How wretched I am suffocating in my weakness – the unknown murderer of mankind. Pressed upon me this invisible burden, a word on my tongue, but a bite on my lip as in selfishness or fear I hesitate and turn away from my confession. I am filled with remorse, with hatred towards my own being for not able to speak out my hidden knowledge; for not being able to answer those questions and comfort the weeping child before me.

For the sake of those who I love…I can do no good. Salvation has been denied by the stars and all will perish but a few souls damned to live amongst spirits and ruins.  Life is a temptation and in the hours of dying I will choose it notwithstanding the misfortune of such existence.

I am depraved as I abandon and mark as condemned those who blest sleep and dream of a tomorrow.

As I leave them in the dark, darkness itself shrouds me, consuming my secret, giving it shelter. And the glimmering judges above watch…

A fistful of death stars; as I squeeze tighter they cut deeper. Though no matter how deep they cut, the pain cannot compare to that daggering my heart, swallowing my soul.


15 thoughts on “Stars

    • I dig the song Marc. Am always amused what sort of music different prose reads to. Interesting that you apply a faster track while I hear something slower, instrumental. Very cool!

      Thanks for the comment and the song.

  1. A thought-provoking piece. Does the Destroyer of Worlds ever tire of her work? Does she mourn for the millions or billions of lives cut short? And what would it signify if she rescued one—or a handful?

    Lots to chew on, on an early Saturday morning.

    • Interesting interpratation Larry. The way you read this, and the questions you ask. It’s different from what I imagined, but I always welcome different understanding. It adds something extra to my initial idea.

      Gotta ask, what made you think it’s a she? 🙂

    • I should expect myself to be able to write such stories now and then. Sometimes I feel a barricade of words obstructing me, but other times when maybe Shelley’s around I get a crack in that barricade and this is the result. I like experimenting!
      Without a doubt there’s influence by Shelley 🙂

      Thanks for the comment John.

  2. This does have a very different feel to other things I’ve read of yours. Took me a moment to remember the difference between death stars and Death Stars (that was a crazy mental image I can tell you)!

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