A humble  take  on  Guardian’s   “Brief, brief, but inside me now,
which the stars could never be.” From  A Work of Fiction.

I read,re-read  the pages of  my life,

Turning  over and over again,

There is  no last page,

It is never-ending, looks  like.

It takes  me  to  a vague  beginning,

A  sad  unravelling,  a  wave of  sorrow,

Where  are those good  souls,

Afflicted, suffered for no fault of

Their own, where  have they gone?

It is silent suffering, merging

Themselves into  Silence.

Not one or  two,  but  myriad, countless.

I walked  out,  distracted,

Into  the night, looked up the

Pouring stars. For  whom?

By my side, a glow worm

Winks  at  my  distraught .

This tiny, shiny emits,

Many  a  brief, brief,

But  inside  my troubled self,

Stars  could  never be.