Pinpricks of white light litter the sky,
calm in the darkness of night splendid blemishes God painted
dance motionless to a symphony composed for constellations.
Imperfect eyes capture a patch of heaven never the whole
in the moments ideas, fantasies, desires, dreams concocted some
to fruition others to despair.
Yet none can deny they still occupy the stars.
Those stars rumored to guide our past and dictate our future,
millions of prophecies ever seen never touched.
And through many paradoxes the stars are not alone above
for in the far horizon rage thunderstorms, silent in the distance.
Each charge of electricity clearly pronounce like glowing
roots restless in their pursuit of a better day.
Unlike the posted stars thunderstorms appear here, vanish there.
Those storms drum the heavens with explosions as if they were soldiers
afraid to be seen vulnerable and so they shout the same war cry
whilst firing into the wind; the same wind
who carries all the secrets of the world.
Those storms that seem harmless when soundless anyway –
stars look more imposing to a foolhardy soul
whose innocence embraces the beauty of thunderstorms.
I saw effortless performance from mere chemical reactions.
And I slept,
having witnessed the orchestra of stars and thunderstorms.