Do stars live their lives behind bars?
Do they too carry scars?
Do they long to be like other stars from afar?
Collecting wishes in tiny glass jars?
Have they seen, been witness to the storms on Mars?
Do they pity planets when they see life ripped from its molten souls
and stuffed into robots and cars?
Poor little earth with veins and arteries turned hot, hard, thick and clogged with tar.
Does it amuse them when they see tiny organisms fight, kill or spar?
Do they the stars, too go to war?
Shooting and flinging meteors?
Maybe not but it's something to think of in midst of moonlit thoughts I implore.
Do the stars too sing about whom they adore?
Do the stars tell us stories anymore?
Do they dance or have they become old, no longer bright and holding ones galore
Do they to become tired and sore?
Do they know their worth and their Lore?
From mouths of elders hushed stories no more.
From my culture it was torn.
A supernova new life could be born
Or black hole for one warns
for eternal tearing, ripping of souls form their forms.
From fiery red giants to baby blues
Do stars dream too?
Space itself reflects early mornings dew.
They'll never know of evening's hue
For one cannot see their own beauty, forever out of view.
