|Blogs > Seriously_Real > A Fibrous Strength of Being|
Poets and children always know what to wish.
Their hearts speak the moment’s purest hope
At the first star (seen tonight) that is nimble enough
To win the race to the soul.
The starlight so starbright entices incantations
Tripping off the tongue like a starter’s pistol,
Beginning the search for the winner
Of the right to listen impassively to the end.
Breaking the tape at the iris,
The victor steps within, and coolly accepts
The trophy of impulsive demands
And impromptu requests from the audience.
Dawn leads the closing ceremonies,
Clearing the way for the nearest and brightest
To wake the children, sober the poets,
And erase recollections of wishes wasted.
The contestants line up again backstage,
Discarding bouquets, disposing old trophies,
Putting on the Emperor's uniform,
And listening quietly for the chant to the sky.
The games go on, until one starry night
To the surprise of the crowd, but not with delight
Hope though they may, and try as they might
They find no wish to wish that night.
The sky is just the sky.
The night is just the night.
The dreams are only dreams.
And wishes are ever wasted.