She sits a widowed star beyond the rest,
And whispers of the final kiss.
Entrances souls who chance to look
With promise of eternal bliss.

She glared in through the eyes, and saw
We lack it in our minds, to share.

For there are some who dare to stare
From tree limbs down or straight ahead
Towards the twisted terrible
The natural, nothing, new.

Others look to bluish rays—At dusk
They treat her starlit gleam as proof
Of imminent forever high above.

True malice is her use of silver haze
To seal between the two of us a lack of love.

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