The Price of Stardust

I’m not interested in watching figures

accumulate on a back-lit screen,

the modern day fairy tale,

perceiving abundance in counting zeros.

I try to outrun the voices

of well-meaning role models

who sit on both sides of

a whole neighbourhood of fences,

whispering the soundest of advice

while I’m just laying the foundation

of a Lego brick fort to hold my opinions.

I’m not interested in money.

When I lean in for the sound of my own voice,

spoken in code decipherable

only by the white noise of 3am,

worry seems as distant as a memory

looked at from underwater,

yet I walk bent over from

the headlock fear has me in.

We make for a comical pair:

me hunched, doing mental math

and muttering numbers at the ground,

him giggling at my dogged persistence

and eating Cheetos so orange flakes

collect in my hair.

I never wanted to be rich.

I want to dance in a red dress

through a golden sky,

to count all the stardust I will never own;

to have the freedom to look

as long as my eyes allow, at the sun.

I want to pull coins from my pockets

and see them turn to rocks in my hands,

throw them to the lake

and see all the waters rise with their weight,

just that little bit.

That would be enough.

Does someone have a estimateĀ for that?




P.S. If you like, check out my Etsy store and support The Humane League!




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