I confess that I am tired of these same, old stars.
It is said that they wax and wane, like a distant tide,
Lights over changing water. But in my eyes
They haven’t changed – I doubt they ever did,
A constellation is stone, not life and fire.
They were always there, and cannot care for us.
It is said they are born and die: but from down here
They are not mortal, not subject to the force
Of alteration. Their honesty, plainly hid,
Is nothing. And so we live, inconstant in desires,
While they wait constant, markers for the tide,
As we drift through, so tired of these same, old stars.
I’m actually in a good mood today. Honest.