Selective Light

My family are the stars,
each in exile
from the sun’s grasp,
from the sun’s light
singing of how it can
save me.

But the light is a lie,
a story fed to babes,
repeated by children,
to make them feel
special.

But the light is a lie,
a mask worn
even by those
still working to convince
themselves.

But the light is a lie,
pattering with distortions
only seen
through the glass
from the outside.

My family are the stars
too dim to find,
but their influence
must be,
for I can’t be
the only one.

Perhaps they abstain
from shining bright
in sadness
for the lying light
that professes how much
it wants to hold me
but only
if I accept its truth.

Perhaps they abstain
from the shining light
in sadness
for their brother or sister
who lost the way
and walks astray
in the darkness,
clinging to itself.

Perhaps they abstain
from the shining light
and how it wishes to save me,
while we gaze at each other,
and I wish to save those
who in their desperate hour
allowed the light
to blind them.