Black lines with smaller gray ones
That violate their ends
Pace their way along the velvet sky like parasitic vines.
It is a desperate, futile attempt to reach the noon sun.
But the glowing sphere trips on a cloud, falls,
And the trees may not retrace their steps.
They appear shattered as glass,
Torn as a toddlers clothes
After a long day of of exploring a sylvan yard.
Birds alight themselves-
A pulse
A shock
It shatters wooden spirits to their roots,
Tearing the trees from their daze-
Determination.
Hardened, mossy skin continues to grow.
The light-globe must ascend again.
Hope.
The sun will climb as they do,
It races to shine light on all that is green,
But runs a race with no finish line-
No rest.
Stars do not blink.
That is an atmospheric illusion.
No, the sky's fireflies can only die,
Leave a darkness like no other-
A void that was once occupied
That mourns the loss of its only companion-
The entity only missed because it was once known.