The Art of Dumping Stars (#1)

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No, this is not an ending.

It is a quiet rite, a ceremony of release.

 

I gather the remains of constellations once called mine.

They flicker, uncertain—

ghosts of light that still believe in their own warmth.

 

I whisper to them: it’s time.

Cast them into the Abyss,

And when they fall, slow and soundless,

the sky exhales—emptied, cleansed, alive again.

 

Perhaps this is how gods dream—

by erasing what once shone too brightly,

so that the dark might learn to sing again.

 

Thus is the mystery: The art of relinquishing its own radiance.

to unmake is also to create.

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_p

Done