Young Writers Society

Country winds blow softly across an open field.
Thin strands of fresh grass sway from side to side,
Illuminated by a rich blue sky.
Nature’s endless cloak, spanning beyond the horizon.
And scattered throughout this eternal backdrop,
Lies stars.
A heavenly mirage upon an earthly canvas.
Beacons of silver fire, casting forth their light into the deep darkness,
Burning for all of time.

Two years ago I returned to that very field.
Where the thin grass swayed from the country wind.
But in its place,
Lied concrete.
Cement,
Wood,
Steel.
A town,
Lighted by rows of streetlights,
By the bright, florescent glow of a gas station.
I looked up into the night sky.
Searching for the stars I had once gazed upon.
There were none.
Where once twilight fires sparkled in the night.
There was only darkness.
Where once a masterpiece was gloriously displayed in the sky,
There lied only the blank canvas.
Where once stars vigorously cast their light,
There were none.