Pure coldness to our imperfect eyes
That stare beyond this world, where nothing’s made,
Gives birth to hopes and dreams from stellar skies
That never quite come true, or even fade,
For stars are made to gaze at, not to own,
And distance blurs the vision of the night.
Desire oft ignites a fire alone
That soon consumes observers of that light.
And still she burns the brighter, come what may,
Upon an aging wasteland and its souls,
Knowing well the touch of her embrace
Would soon destroy their world and all it holds.
Fair light, false hope, and dreams of what might be
Only offer illusions there to see.
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