They Say

When our people die,

they become stars of the night.

Igniting the obsidian sea,

a veil of heavenly light.


For people like I,

with godly ichor in our veins,

cursed never to die,

the stars are our very banes.


But these days,

The clouds of grey have arisen.

Smoke and Ember in a haze

Smother the heavens unbidden.


The lights of the sky will not be seen again. 





This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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