Cold comradeship do stars provide.They light the closer, inner sideOf night's vast weight, which, chill and clear,Pulls on us like some puppeteer.Its unseen threads to heads and heartsAttached, it acts us through our parts,From birth's first cry to bent old age,Upon our distant, tiny stage.
The stars crossed and The Boy wished he could have hung himself on them.
The Boy With The Thorn In His Side
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The stars crossed and The Boy wished he could have hung himself on them.
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