The Illusionist

I want to tell the stars that I'm sorry.

I'm sorry for the nights I couldn't see.

The nights they couldn't see me.

Jealous clouds often hiding their beauty.

I'm sorry for the nights I stared,

but only for their looks.

Many astronomers have put down in books

of the power held within them.

Yet I often neglet to admit the light they've given.

I want to apologize to make things right.

It is with the sky itself I've picked a fight.

The fight of perception.

I am losing horribly despite my deception.

You see it's a beauty of a canvas you can't touch.

Ever changing and in no rush.

Infinite and effortless.

Like a peace without a need to practice.

I have to tell them that I'm sorry.

Because when I look up at the night's array.

I dismiss their infinite power 

and their existence all together, but only during the day.

This poem is about: 


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