(Credit: Jill Wellington on Pixabay)


For my little fir

I pluck bright stars from the sky

To put in her hair



An Empty Speech Bubble


(Credit: alierturk on DeviantArt)

I made an empty speech bubble

And tried to fill it with stars, I found swimming in a night sky.

But it was only a reflection in still water, which had tricked my eye,

And I slipped on the smooth stones.

Drenched, I shivered, as the cold gnawed at my bones.

And I tried again to fill the bubble, this time with fish wrung from my hair.

But they died, gasping for air,

And my shadow rose up behind me and laughed at me,

And my silly notions of filling the emptiness. ‘Like piss in the sea,’

It told me. ‘But the sea is full of life,’

I thought, as I cut the shadow from my feet with a knife

And stuffed it in my bubble.

Sea Of Stars



She drifts in a sea of stars, letting their white light warm her heart. She moves her tail only just enough to keep her from sinking deeper. From where she is, the stars look like they are sailing on the waves, right above her head, waving, inviting. She reaches out a hand, her fingers break through the surface and a chill wind strokes them. She makes the motion of picking something and draws her hand to her breast. If she could she would pick every one of them and never let them go.

Star Songs


From my roof I count the stars and they fill my head with sweet songs, but although the rhymes stick, the reason floats away when dawn washes over me.

So I return every night to admire the light and they tell me that humanity is so so so very close to touching them and I wonder whether that means that even I can touch the sky. They tell me that they are not really white, that the air is cleaner from a mountain top and that they seldom grant wishes, but they might consider granting mine and I wonder what wish they are talking about and I still believe in nothing.

34 Stars

‘Stars are symbols of the past. Yes, stars, especially shooting stars. Stars are pictures of the past. And how magnificent they all look from down here. Although some of them are probably long gone, maybe millions of years ago. Shooting stars are the essence of Vanitas. Here in an instant gone in a flash, and then they too are of the past, with only a memory left of their light. Yes, such is the nature of stars.’

‘Oh, but stars are beauty made matter. They are like gems in the velvet cloth of the night sky, glimmering through many human lifetimes. They have their own magic, made real through the imagination of man.’

‘The stars are unreachable, but we keep trying. We know each one of them is a sun and each of them holds the promise of life out there, that maybe one day we will know the nature of. And each one of them is made of mindboggling amounts of energy and molecules. Many of them make our own sun look like a dwarf in comparison. To think if we could travel-’

‘Would you all please just shut up and enjoy it?’

And so they shut up.

And gazed at the stars.


Every night I look down on their houses as they turn out their lights, and wish that my wings had never been clipped.  Sometimes I even wish that he had just let me fall, like the others. Instead of this hiding and clinging to stars.

I am so close to the sky. Sometimes I think that if I could just remember exactly how it was to soar through it, I would be able to again, and I could soar up, up all the way to heaven and then maybe he would…

Maybe he would strike me down,

Maybe clip my wings again.

Maybe he would just destroy me and have done with it.

Perhaps that would be better. To have it over and done with. But, where do angels go when they die?

I cling to my star.

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