A Poem I Wrote - Light Pollution
Light Pollution
The surgeons continue to tear up the skies
with their torches, trying to find wounds
that do not exist. Scraping
against the veins that keep the bloodworld
living, they call the moon a cyst.
The passengers continue to move
around the veins that keep the glassworld
living. Each drink swirled slowly, a
gentle sun hangs above their heads,
unsatisfied with their vibrant memories.