I grow bored with the stars on the ground,
The lights so earthbound.
I grow weary of the smog of man,
That obscures anything it can.
I grow disgusted with the factory fumes,
And how the sky it consumes.
I grow tired of the loathing clouds,
Cloaking the heavens with their ghastly shrouds.
I want to see the stars above,
I want to see the lights of love.
To see the sky a lit yet clear,
So far away, yet so near.
The streetlamps are so organized,
so planned, predictable, and in numbers oversized.
They outshine the beauty aloft,
But are so cold and machine, not warm and soft.
I miss watching the hunter, the serpent and the bears,
I miss watching where they fare.
I remember that at the stars, I once gazed,
Now are enveloped, in an ugly haze.
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