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Tin Stars

A man climbs the sky,
holding fists full of tin stars.
He is night’s would-be lover.
Her nameless handyman,
a man with bandaid hands,
careless touch.
He’s looking for her,
to pin his stars across her dress.

Coat of black,
buttoned one and three.
leather smell.
He cannot wear the red of love,
it would scare her away.
She is lost.

It was long ago
she stopped for day, blue and bright,
He burnt her dress.
Instead only coffee with dusk.
Tiny chipped cups steam their words.
The purple pansy pattern faded.
So soon loneliness enters,
only the moon hanging itself
stays.

Tin Stars

Monica Ellis

Sydney, Australia

Tags

poem

Artwork Comments

  • ariyahjoseph
  • Monica Ellis
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