The stars are not going to reach down
and pull her to her feet, hold her up.
The stars are not going to reach down,
gently cup her chin and lift her face.
The stars are not going to reach down
and hug her, whisper to her, kiss her.
The stars make shapes in the sky for her.
If she goes out at night, lifts a hand,
spreads her fingers, stars are diamond rings
sparkling on all her fingers for her.
It’s a choice. This going out at night.
It’s a choice. This lifting up a hand.
It’s a choice. This putting on the stars.
The stars are not going to reach down.
But anyone can choose to reach up.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Don’t You Fucking Die Mischa Barton
Crown And Tiara
The Clock That Laughs And Loves
Sparrow And Moon
Whispering On The Moon
No comments:
Post a Comment