'All pasts are like poems; one can derive a thousand things, but not live in them' John Fowles

Saturday, December 18, 2004

My Star

There you are way up high
in the inky midnight sky,
twinkling as I give a sigh.
Discreetly you radiate lethal charm,
as I've realised with much alarm
how you alone dominate
my piece of blackened sky.
So it is now that I,
(with a strong impetus to try)
reach forth to grasp
what my fingers cannot clasp.
For there you are way up high,
in my piece of midnight sky...

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