Facing the Stars read by Jonathan Moya
I see the stars
and feel I don’t exist,
that my grief is the only
thing that has meaning.
The grief that welcomes
my own eulogy,
reading my headstone
in the decaying light,
reminding me that I
am mortal and must die,
dissolve to indistinguishable
dust and dirt, a man, an, a.
The glowing cheeks of my parents
just another flaw among flaws,
me a broken stone among a broken
house made of broken stones.
I know suns die every day and are
mourn no more than a falling leaf.
Are flies the only things that will
enjoy supping on my remains?
Yet, I still look up at the night stars
and wonder if they were made
to house all my/our dreams,
the eternity of all hours.
Will they expand beyond
these shadows or just maybe,
I still don’t exist and am just
a scream that’s still asleep?
The selling of a condo where a dear friend once lived brings closure and thoughts on my own grief and mortality.I,,
Leave a Reply