My favourite cold blue sky,
devoid of clouds
and chemtrails,
as if even the ever
busy human has curbed
his disregard for nature,
not daring to soil
the virginal beauty.
Cherishing our star’s
victory as it defies its
shallow angle, and
-in a last uprise-
graces us with the glow
of summer memorised.
Dressed in resignation
and chained by a sense of duty,
we brace ourselves for
being penned up in a room
full of people wearing
importance and faux smiles
in their chase of acknowledgement
and admiration.
I adore you, you know,
you are so much better at
making the best
of any given situation,
mingling gracefully
while I, ever pensive,
try to get to the bottom
of my aversion for
social gatherings like this.
So I cling to my glass
of whatever is fashionable
at the moment, in the hope
it will drown my non-compliant
notions, and keep my inner rebel
under lock and key.
Trust has woven
its delicate strands
around neglected
promises and
long-forgotten declarations,
stretched thin in
too many places, ready
to disintegrate at any moment.
My approach to
what ended up being us
has always been
an overcautious one;
tentative steps
forward, followed
by hasty retreats.
If you were anything
like me, we would
probably still be trapped
behind walls of hesitation.
The night sky’s amazing
protocol of the past
beckons with a surge
of flickering lights from
uncountable distant suns,
that might just be ghostly
messages of the vanished.
And, as always,
my eccentric mind
is doing somersaults,
dwelling on my own
sort of fancy philosophy.
What if we are the Last Hold,
our galaxy the last light
in a dark, and empty Universe.
Drifting, all alone,
but still drifting,
defying the laws of physics
through pure human stubbornness,
unaware until the last light
has winked out?
Without the slightest hesitation
you crucified me
for your moment of glory.
I did not see it coming,
which stings more
than the actual betrayal.
© Novemberchild
november child 