Morning Star
far too skinny
for the wealth of us,
pearl
drops sparkling in the curve of
the Horned
Moon, heavens darkening.
It averts
its eyes. The Queen of Hearts
sleeps, her
cards no longer keeping guard,
and the Cheshire
Cat has found his head,
is grinning
away by this swanless stream.
Born from
lava, obsidian waters swirl,
this lunar
world silent on a silent breeze.
and we
ignore the languid inauspicious moon,
banking on
the Morning Star to be our guide,
the anchor
of the northern sky, daydreamer
of the
Celestial Sphere. While every other star
turns, it
stands still, steadfast, staring down,
an unwavering
sky marker for those who follow,
a tiny
beacon in the perilous dark.
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