Lambs Who Live With The Stars
You were the last day of Cancer,
a sweet, sinful summer child.
The only pure thing about you,
was the blinding white shirt,
that kept your chest a prisoner,
pressed every morning,
the way your mother showed you,
an optical illusion
that runs through my mind all day,
the way I run after you,
time after time,
more and more desperate and delusional,
despite the way you warned me,
stroking my cheeks as I slept,
with tears in your eyes,
begging me not to love you,
because there can be good in you.
I know you don’t want to see it,
having already made up your mind,
that you don’t mind being so beastly,
but your eyes are not mine,
even though mine long for yours,
and my mind isn’t quite made up about you yet.
You said you loved my hair high,
like all your other ladies,
because you loved to look at our faces.
You said you had good taste,
always choosing the best,
bringing all the brightest stars into your orbit,
because you were a sweet, selfish summer child,
I guess I am just another bright but blinkered bulb in your observatory,
and maybe that’s fine.
Maybe you had to keep all the lights on,
softly buzzing in the background,
of all your bad dreams,
because you thought you were full of darkness,
and maybe that’s fine too,
won’t you think of the environment?