Constellating a Society

We are like the constellations mapped out in the night

sky.

We dance blissfully with each other, illuminating

the perpetual darkness that surrounded the earth.

 

But not all nights are clear like this.

Some nights, the beauty of our light disappears behind

the clouds.

Some nights, our dances are substituted to the gentle

melodies of the rain, the great orchestra of the thunder,

and the delicate dances of lightning.

 

But sometimes, those nights of where the clouds

-devour the light brought into this world,

those are the nights that last the longest.

We forget what the stars look like,

if the moon’s name was Wading,

or if it was Crescent.

We forget what beauty looked like.

 

Those nights where we are blindfolded by the clouds,

forgetting that the world can be filled with brightness,

forgetting that the world isn’t so scary.

 

Our society lives through those cloudy nights.

Cold and dark and scary.

 

When it rains, the beautiful melodies that we once heard

tapping against the window pane,

becomes the deafening ring of a gunshot.

 

The different tones of thunder that once constellated a

beautiful symphony,

suddenly became the horrifying screams of mothers,

children, men, pleading for help.

 

Lightning that once moved as if it were a calm wave, crashing

gently against the sand, became something

hostile. It was ready to destroy everything in its path.

 

No matter how much we wanted to try to brighten that

dark canvas, we couldn’t.

Our light dimmed and our dances became dull.

 

No matter how much we wanted the moon to show her

imperfected beauty, she couldn’t.

 

It was nights like these -- long and miserable and dark--

where we all gave up on ourselves.

 

We gave up on hope.

 

But it is also nights like this that I’ve become content with

the most.

The nights where rain hits my window violently,

the wind angrily shoving the branches of the trees sounding

like wolves howling in pain.

The nights where lightning dances aggressively, trying to prove

Some

Kind

Of

Point.

The nights where thunder sounds like a stomach gurgling:

These are the nights I live for.

 

It gives me a sense of knowing that though

we gave up on hope,

we will continue to constellate a society.

 

This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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