A gift for Grace
Cassiopeia weeps under the weight of dreams,
the shimmering eyes of the dead,
or of those who simply refused to be born.
’Neath a spider-web of stars,
an empty hammock will twitch in the breeze,
a gentle shift in the glorious patchwork of time.
A thousand years from now there will be seen,
hearts turned to dust, myth,
constellations reborn.
Just a rearrangement of souls, time,
lights snuffed out, arrows snapped,
flags torn and tattered.
A gift for Grace, the paper is plain, folded,
you finger the bow, twirl it,
but she has already left.