Star of Glass

Among a forest of books,
I wander other worlds,
As I dream of things, both real and imaginary,
Within this overgrown, ruined place,
Beneath the eternal sky.
I am here, a broken heart,
A broken star of glass.
Silently weaving, quietly existing,
Till my words touch the pages,
And colors spill out from my stained fingers.
Forget-me-nots sprout from the cracks,
And bloom beneath a twilight sky,
A reminder of bittersweet thoughts,
Of fragile memories I hold within glass stars.
To forget the pain, the sorrow that lingers on,
I let myself become entangled by threads,
The waking dreams I create,
By the worlds I let myself fall into.
A flame flickers beneath my tear-stained face,
A small quiet voice quivers and struggles to speak.
Is that voice the past or present me?
Among a forest of books,
I wander other worlds,
As I dream of things, both real and imaginary,
Within this overgrown, ruined place,
Beneath an eternal twilight sky.
I remain alone,
Longing for a warmth I may never have,
A fragile wish.
I close my tired eyes,
I cut off from reality,
When tears threaten to drown the light,
When it all becomes too much to bear,
Because I am delicate patched glass.
Can you hear the words,
My rusted voice can’t speak aloud.
Among a forest of books,
I wander other worlds,
As I dream of things, both real and imaginary,
Within this overgrown, scarred, ruined place,
Beneath the eternal twilight sky.
I am here, a broken heart,
A broken star of glass.
Forever silently weaving, quietly existing,
Till my whispered words touch the charred pages,
And colors spill out from my stained fingers.
Forget-me-nots sprout from my cracked heart,
And bloom beneath a lonely sky,
A reminder of bittersweet thoughts,
Of fragile memories I hold within glass stars.
A flame flickers beneath my tear-stained face,
A small quiet voice quivers and struggles to sing.
Is that voice the past or present me?
Only ashes remain of the things that burned in the flames,
That brought this place to ruin twice more.
To forget the pain, the sorrow that lingers on,
I let myself become entangled by the thin red threads,
That hold and hang the glass stars above,
By my endless dreams.
I remain alone in this scarred place,
Longing for a fragile warmth I may never have.
Can you hear the words,
My rusted voice can’t speak aloud.
Among a forest of books,
I forever wander other worlds,
As I dream of things, both real and imaginary,
Within this overgrown, ruined place,
Beneath an eternal twilight sky.
Forget-me-nots bloom from my heart,
My rusted quiet voice hums a bittersweet melody,
The words are mere whispers,
Till they touch the charred pages,
And colors spill out from my stained fingers.
I am here, a broken heart,
A broken star of glass.
Silently weaving, quietly existing,
Till I return to stardust;