Rusted stars fall, clustered deep in the dark,
With burnt out wishes that will no more speak.
She cries at Spring’s demise, a widowed lark,
As toxic purple tiptoes on the creek.
They were no angels who sang hymns divine,
But stars who shone with mute fascination
Coloring shadows with smiles coralline,
Blinking together, one aggregation.
They wail out loud, harbingers of seasons,
Gleaming like dew on fetal finger-tips,
And rain comes down, throttling nervous reasons,
Who stammer to speak on those silver lips.
Often this silence paves the way to Death,
Waiting for wishing stars, counting their breath.