Wry

Golden roots that rise above,
Hidden summer, winter cold.
Hazel eyes on the edge of being,
Bleeding words to grab the moon,
Diving deep into the black lagoon.
Salting nerves to still the gaze,
Watching loners chafe my side,
Tread on leaves that make me slide.
Hold the wave that strikes the stars,
Lost against the one in all,
On that luster covered wall.
Clone this wretch a thousand times,
Sailing back a deja vu.
Hand a memory color blue,
Chosen by the one unknown.
Stretch the thread until it breaks,
Get notion of what it takes,
To reach the illusion beyond the lush.

Death of a Star

She was lonely in the night,
Up high in the blue of the sky.
She had no love, she had no faith,
But she kept shining night after night.
Like all the others she had dreams,
But all those dreams, they faded away.
Why was she crying in the mist?
Why didn't she talk, why didn't she pray?
Why was she burning in her heart?
She never answered, she never spoke,
She only stared down at the world,
But the flames consumed her soul,
And she was never seen again.
They say she died a night of cold,
But never knew why did she go,
Until one day we dared to see
Below our feet, past through the clouds,
An earth of men made up of hate,
And we surely knew why she gave up soon.
Why would you enlight a world that's doomed?
When all your light turns back as shadows,
And what you feel remains so shallow,
Isn't it better to die in light
than to be burned by the reflection of stars?