I scattered a galaxy
trying to spontaneously
combust inside this
ribbed hall;
with but bones to hold
in novas and nebulae
between tiny cracks—
letting go of a million
lights in exchange
for a better sun.
If I could borrow still
the optimism from my youth
I could lift from my eyelids
this heavy scrim —
that masks the sun
and all the stars in the skies.
What enthusiasm to free
their light and free my dream.
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