End of Starchild

At first, one offers what is light, what feels like a spark of joy. an idea, a thought, a secret desire. the act of giving is not without its price. it is the yearning to be seen, to be known that causes the soul to fray. the whisper becomes a chant. a plea, a cry for attention, and then a demand. once two souls are entwined in the same obsession, they pull at each other. in the end, both are consumed. what was once a mutual understanding becomes a prison of thoughts.

A voice reaches through the fog clouding your senses.

Polaris waketh; thrice in breath conceal’d, once graven deep on ashen flesh.

the sphere, that, sleeping, yet its oath doth keep, doth take the marrow,

and doth guide the hand that deems itself unbound

in time unreckon’d the heav’ns do barter breath for measur’d dust.

sleep names it fate; but waking calls it law. such freedom runs as straight as any line.

each path was trac’d ere thou couldst set thy foot, and nam’d ere tongue or voice were given thee.

man calls it choice; the geometry, an end; and night applauds what day doth never speak.

know that the skye hath clos'd its eyes.

Rise and shine.