Bright dots

Bright dots on a dark slate are the stars,

and like them, we spark colorless.

Distant enough to view all else invisible,

bloated enough to reside across the Belt.

Pride deletes the vibrancy of images

and makes it black and white.

Injustice is purged to the moons

who only borrow their shine,

to rocks with no gifts of green.

But when all the eons are counted,

the dust restrains every twinkle,

the star sets.

And the body cannot bargain

nor the light can counter.

Every matter drawn to the slate

will ever rest in the dark,

nothingness of the heart.