The Wrath of a star | Petrichorgazette

The wrath of a star,

It is blood, not stardust, that fading rouge ringing your bronzed glorious fingers, trailing dead Life down your cheeks. It is blood, darling—of virtuous and tempestuous nen! It is blood, it Is blood, that you leave in warning like a blush of rage or the bloom of wildflowers in those Sticky summers, like an hour to heed the veins of men, and whatever madness, like an Oracle’s whispers frosting against the glass pane of their minds, calls to them.

It is armour, strong and breastplated, placated against the wild heart of a lion, that roars Against the constraints of a chest. You may not rest, darling, until the work is finished, it is Not in your self-interest. And even if all woe were to diminish, it is only with mild contempt That you may call yourself the best. Oh-so-different are you, a smudge of colour interrupting The grey brushstrokes, against the normalcy of the rest.

It is the sea, not destiny reflected, in the jaded emerald of your eyes. It is only water, darling, Crashing against the banks, splitting apart everything you think you are meant to know Against the rocks. It is not here for you to realise the deep nuances of such a tortured soul in Your possession, lying within the sharp features of pain on your face. It is water—poisoner And revelator to you. It is so chaste, the games of a child, the tragic things you do.

It is not glory, it is war, it is fate picking at the feast with a scowl. It is the vice of long dead Phantoms that come to paint your dreams. So it seems, darling, that you are persuaded by Such lack of humanity, that eventually in raw it will consume you, a predator’s howl, Unfurling away promised gold in the wreath, into nothing but browned leaves.

It is music, the lilting sweetness of birdsong and honeycombed flowers dripping notes like Summer rain, not the melody a bard would pluck from his lyre, as he tells of the fire of your Hair, the swiftness of your purpose, a heavenly greatness among the prosaic of mortals. A Song to encapsulate the sting of ambrosia and the epic of clouds, to desperately escape the Irksome wonder of small words. You wonder, ‘what am I worth if I am not a star?’

‘Who will care for my grand feats and my travels far?’ What is there to love, wholly Unworthy you must think you are. But there is courage in the vulnerability of allowing Others to map your stories, immortality etched in your battle scars.

All of the heroes, showered in roses and gold, revived through their bloodshed, in stories old.

That of others, of loved ones, of their own veins, cold and unflinching they were, and yet What did they gain? Never Gods these ones, never removed from mortal plight. They came

Tumbling right down, failing to reach for a piece of the sun in their flight. The sun—blazing, Dictating the rise and fall of days that wither us away. How dare any try and claim it? Destroy what has always stayed.

You dare feel love, terror, grief and happiness? You dare walk this Earth? Mortality in your Bones, chattering nervously like teeth in winter, contrivance as an amendment to your worth?

You wish to be rebirthed in the eyes of those who do not see, and yet here, darling, is where I Will always be. Are you scared to live? Has pain made you weep? Do your tears burn like Ice, all the sorrow that they keep? Do not fear, darling. It is beautiful to live. It is inexplicable To breathe, lungs that will fail you. It is a deep seated worry: will you prevail or will you Remain? It is tragedy, pity, danger and beauty, no divinity can feign, the thousands of lives You may live under one given name.

‘I am mortal!’ you cry, your knuckles break and bleed. Your blood, not of stardust, seeps Black into the sand. It does not glisten with a sparkling purity—it is in different shades of Personality. Why can’t they understand? You have slaughtered, you have sang, you have Cursed to the skies: Why are you not invincible as the River Styx promised? Why in the

Face of all difficulties are you not courageous? So loud your heart has pounded, in your ears, Relentless. How could fate, a destiny so immeasurable as your own, demand a place to die?

Look here, beyond the river of your tears, see what has become of your inconsolable grief.

Look at this, and this, the wonderful things you can be. The wonderful things you will be. And they will be the right things. Be remembered for what beats inside my chest as I tell You—it beats and beats and beats, as if it will forever. It is strong, fierce and powerful, gentle And kind. It cannot be diluted. So when the darkness shall claim it, you will laugh.

Shadows are of the sun after all. Fear will not erase spirit. You are mortal—you are glad.