the murder of stars.

....to see such beauty,
to feel such love...

does it matter, make a difference?
i have no idea, but at least
i know myself enough....

to feel and breathe, gush, bleed
like heaven
amounts of things
most don't seem much concerned with

at least not in realms beyond
the frustrating "norms"
of "my little world only"
how we fall in line and conform

to perfect little minions
by millions
pat backs, like champs
of the hearts, we so steal them

little trophies, collected, in mind
we are capable of magic
but we destroy it so casually
so carelessly, to find

we, ourselves, alone, deep inside
comforted by all the lies of love
we abide
the ones that say
it doesn't really matter, what we did
just "live in the moment"
deluding true self, as we move on
ever faster, who to kid

and con with our games
the ones about deflection,
avoidance and blame
"it's you, not me and me not you"
unable to conquer the cruelty, untamed

the kind that permeates
every sector, every floor
every hallway of our "human"
rarely accessed, we,
such self aggrandizing, self promoting
peddling whores

of "hollywood talk",
the infinite stalk
like little creepers, crawling
pretending to walk

taller, prouder
than really, we are
its the maul of the heart
and the murder of stars

for profit, for power
for the draining, depletion
of meaningful hours

time spent communing
with voice attached to soul
what good are we now
if not entrenched in our roles

distant, detached.

what came first,
the key or the latch?
the plan or the hatch?
the dick or the snatch?

the caught or the catch?

you tell me
man of lies and woman of disguise

behind easy lyrics, as epitaphs
we hide

share to the world,
the one, most, truly not listening
as we diminish, in daily
each other, our importance,
our glistening

value and treasure
replacing connections
like coats, jackets,
all weather

"take one off, put one on"..
land of little lasting,
if at all, very long...

what's another body
before us, so trampled
what's another heart
for the easy play, sampled..

eaten and swallowed,
with barely a mind present
just maybe my hell, or yours
for some, heaven...

the slaughter, the succulent
murder of stars
still, your face unforgettable
work of art, left in shards...

my mind, my memories
of you, held and cradled
as some kind of magic
that befell me once, labeled

as heaven on earth
by "someone like me"
now
the murder of stars
by you

i can't believe.

you did,
but you did.
and "the why"
is that which now haunts me,
perceived..

as in part, your pathology
man of "universe", astrology
man of so many, bleeding,
beautiful things

left in me to sort through
walk amongst the aftermath
the loss of you, the drowning sadness that brings

like the murder of stars
you committed for a reason

and i hope one day
you realize the hurt
and the haunt

yes, it stings.

in a way never expected
because it came from you

those eyes, how they shined
of something truly remarkable

moving, not murderous,

beyond belief.


bowen hart roselli
22 october 2020
ringwald love