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Poem

I once could feel the stars align,
Their whispers wound with threads of time,
A quiet hum, a tender plea,
The echoing pulse of eternity.

But now the golden cords unwind,
The sun retreats, the stars grow blind,
And telepathy slips like sand,
No longer cupped within my hand.

I held the moon, her silver face,
And squeezed her tight with soft embrace,
Her gleaming tears fell to the sea,
And birthed the waves' bright symphony.

But even as the tides retreat,
A restless rhythm bittersweet,
The touch of love begins to fade,
A fragile web too thinly made.

Still, gratitude, a seed of fire,
Burns gently on, my heart's desire—
To cradle those who are my kin,
To know the spark that dwells within.

Compassion swells in tender streams,
Empathy's glow, a quiet beam,
For those who rise, for those who fall,
We are the same, one thread in all.

Up and down, the cycle turns,
The cosmic dance of light that burns,
And though the moon slips from my grip,
Her essence lingers on my lips.

In loss, I find the quiet art,
Of squeezing stillness from my heart.

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