Starless

I’m trying to reach for
the eternal brass ring,
just to show them
I am still capable and
I still want it.

The people
who own the rings,
who hand them out,
must be holding mine back.
Too old, they say

through dismissive hands,
and the sky goes starless
for a second. Too disabled,
they say as they turn from me to others,
to the profit of other affairs.

At least that is what they think;
some of it is true,
of course. Some of my actions
do want to soak in them,
do want to storm them

and tear a castle or two down.
To trade the brass rings over
and put them into iron cuffs.
Sometimes I have dreams
of their brutal, bent ends.

I clench my hands into fists
and sling them into the air.
I could throw them, I could,
if only I wasn’t disabled or old.
They turn their backs on me —

but the new moon is suddenly full
and crimson. The water is black
and rushing into the cracks
of the pavement and I am not alone
when this happens —

so clutch your brass rings, then,
you who hold them, who hold
keys to doors closed tightly
against us. We are coming: limping,
old, hearty; young and angry.

There is not a chance in hell
you don’t know.
Not a chance in your starless night
you don’t know
that we put the stars back;

yes, we took them back.
Their sky isn’t yours anymore —
thieves of hope, sneering
bastards of the privileged.
We took them back

and the night fills with hope
and stars, millions of stars.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T