In her dark skies
she walks above the
curve of the moon,
ice bright
with the coldness
of diamonds.

When upon her stage,
we stumble
to our knees.
Our mortal cage
cannot support
our racing hearts;
blood speeding
through tender veins,
unable to acclimate
ourselves to her
feral grace.

But ask,
is she Kind
or Cruel?
Does this all
not come
with a price
of sweat and pain?
There is no grace
without a sacrifice;
the loss of something
for the gift of another.
By whose scales
does she weigh
the cost?

Your heart
is pure light,
denser than gold
yet without weight.
It will never be enough
in her hands
though it’s immeasurable
in it’s magnitude.
Cold Star,
she shall never
find it’s value
nor appreciate it’s worth.


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