He charts his map

Drawing with the very ink

That fills the dark night sky


He squints through the scope

To gaze upon the heavens


The darkness is a blanket over him

With holes poked for the stars


He predicts their future journeys

He knows their patterns are absolute


Until a shooting star

Dancing, with a flickering tail

Disrupts his perfect chart


And he finally understand that he must go to her


For nothing is absolute,

His plans will never play out perfectly


And she was his shooting star

Gliding across his map.



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