Renegade

It never was easy to be a renegade of all the shooting stars I plucked and threw high as I was sitting close by the window sills and drenched in prickling moonlight.

Funny, because I always told myself that I trust the city lights more than my shadows which were lit by the moon’s discretion. I renegaded through the twists and turns that my fingers were fractured from the burning shooting stars.

When the shooting stars offered a road trip with the destination of one constellation to bottle up my dreams, I was scared it would got far too intricate.

I drove and floated beneath the stars, above the glistening ocean, towards the sky’s highway and collected the scattered stardusts along the way.

Now my windows were unattended and my soul is rebel in this mystical milky way. I no longer renegade. I no longer aimless.

I dream.

Big, far.

And unconditionally.

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