Starry Child

A free form that I quite literally wrote in my sleep. Just woke up one morning with it on my desk and the vague memory of having written something earlier that night.

Black beads

Granules, all unique

The pain by them is by the inflicted

Only amplified by their own attributes

Amongst the unstable, the tolerate, and the blind

Is found finally a little life

A broken grub that may now be mine

 

Oh little child, what is this I see

Quivering in your scar-less palm

Look around to what may be

To the brighter treasures others have found

 

How may the young one speak

Of the nature of the bright spectacles

Of the playful hunt of the other youth

Of the treasures they hardly cherish

That these are but granules too

 

The salt, bright and clear

Cleans its way through

Off the chin

Cleans its way into the hand

The little grub drinks it in

The child cries,

“I cannot play with you”

and sets him in the earth again

 

Dry eyes look around

For the food of the elder’s words

 

The golems dance to the most ancient modern tune

Singing “We love you, we hate you too”

Was a brief painting, quickly cracked

This heart did try to move for a time

Yet the tears return again too soon

 

Where, oh marionettes, can your love be found?

In the acid, and the weakness of the air

Oh how you dance, there must be life in thee

We are but dusty stone

Our life is just the breath of a song

In our burning dust, you must share

So that you may too be only what you sing

 

So shadows may desolate

So they may destroy the security of warmth

The only proof of the day

Is in the silvery curve carved in the sky

 

Oh little child, what is this you see

Shimmering by the moon

There is a starry child

calling toward you

 

How may the young one speak

Of the beauty in her song

Of how it makes him long

Of the way it is wrong

She does not call for him

 

Little grub, your brother shines

May that I know him too

He is brought much glory by the one

That he is calling to

 

And so the ocean flows and ebbs

For the child’s burning wish

Fills a balloon worn and ripped

 

He lays there, in the crumbling dirt

Waiting for the starry child

She dances with them to the golems’ song

Her life is real, for her love is wrought

For the glowing being she has made

In her arms as they embrace

And the child looks on

Author's Note

see if you can figure out what it means...