love still is
all the lights in the city are not enough
to lessen the sorrow inside.
every window could be brightened
by the luminous soul of a happy heart,
but it seems like nothing
could reach far enough to touch
this burden carried on your shoulders,
no window of time could open wide enough
to make you feel the fresh words of the air
whispering to try again, to not let go,
because, still, you can’t lift yourself up
from under the weight of self-doubt.
every skyscraper points to what can be,
the endless possibilities of sky
meant to be scaled,
but for you, it’s just another reminder
of what heights will always be too distant,
the taste of a success you’ll never know,
a joy your hands can never hold.
the stars are shattered shards
of dreams, more fragile than glass,
scattered throughout the dome
that keeps you contained, afraid
of where you’ll never go,
of a life disappeared
before it could ever really be lived.
no one, though, can stop
the moon from rising again,
the stars from inspiring wishes
even when the well is empty,
and no pennies are left in the fountain
to glitter in the silent darkness,
so while I take another breath,
trying to summon the courage
to weave my way through
the tangle of unknowns,
I look at the quiet face of the moon,
more eloquent than any well-versed poem,
like a mother with her arm around you,
encouraging you to find your way
among the stars shawled around her,
waiting for you, hoping
your dreamer’s heart will remember its way home.
when all the lights of a city aren’t enough,
love still is.
Kathryn Sadakierski is a 22-year-old writer whose work has appeared in Critical Read, Halfway Down the Stairs, Literature Today, NewPages Blog, Origami Poems Project, Silkworm, Toyon Literary Magazine, and elsewhere. She holds a B.A. and M.S. from Bay Path University.