Warring Constellations

Did I know the rancid constellations awaiting me?
Not the stars of surreal, of fairytales, of lover's stares,
of wonder.  Oh, mapped out the same, but certainly speckle
a different landscape. None of that twinkling, rather
breaking off, spearing, piercing, slamming the ground around me,
hissing words of doubt blaze a flashing tail behind them.  The weather channel
folks can't see these, no sensing equipment is refined enough to catch them.
They are from consciences anchored to childhood,
its incomprehensible memories when forced
to contemplate their parents issues, pain,
at ages too young, issues that should not be thought of at all,
or at least until adulthood, college, just sometime a lot damn later than
six years old.  Dearest Wordsworth, yes, I see the extraordinary in the ordinary
no one else sees because I have been forced to look to the oddest places for pleasure,
for comfort when such things cannot be provided by a handsome father plagued by war,
stranger in my house, his love a fragile distant light,
and I am profusely punctuated by his silence
and sounds I hear shouted in dark hours of his sleep,
his stars, like me, silent.

Credit: typicalnaloboy, some rights reserved