Late December or Hands in My Pockets

It is busy,
Cold,
Dark,
The night stars,
Swinging in tandem,
Every soul passing,
A beacon to another,
Two signals,
Stars themselves,
Cross lightyears to be seen,
Expanding endlessly,
Streetlamps I despise,
Fluorescent lights effortless,
No journey,
No struggle,
Programmed pathways,
Not so these stars,
It is all anew,
It is all worthwhile,
So they have my love.