Casting out a beam of light,
A tear thin thread into the night.
A delicate shard extending from my soul,
Reaching beyond that which I can or am inclined to want to hold.
Carrying secrets, hopes and follies,
Out into an inky sky that spreads and shifts, is alive before my eyes.
Supposedly mapped, admittedly a mystery,
So much more;
Imagination almost, but can’t quite capture reality.
Tiny flecks, sparkling fragments,
Gleaming brightness in a time defined by its darkness.
Far off manifestations of an endless sea of wishes,
Fixed objects to act as collectors,
Gathering up all the undefinable things we cast out blindly and desperately wish upon.
Luminous guardians, watchers of the earth.
Do they communicate? Commiserate?
As we yearn and resign to place our most desired ambitions upon a hope,
To send it from our being, willing it to become reality,
Could there be a return of such an expectation?
A fulfillment, observers satisfaction, some sort of fruition?
Or is the action more important than the conclusion.
Most of the time what travels down that illuminated line of mine,
Is beyond my comprehension,
Subconscious and wordless, more felt than uttered.
The purest form of anticipation, innocent, confident expectation,
Wilful and unreserved intention.
So when you see a shooting star,
Look not to where it may be going,
As tempting as that far off unknown may be,
Attempt to turn and look an instant in opposition to all instinct,
Think instead of with whom it may have originated,
Or from what it may perhaps have fled.
I envision my radiant hope traveling with such ferocity it erupts and rushes from me.
Commanding the horizon.
Leaving me, dashing across the sky,
Gathering up what is required.
Accelerating, eager and powerful,
Carrying instructions and equipment to its companions up where the twinkling resides.
Exciting action, transforming reality.
Designing an incandescent and limitless tomorrow.
I think perhaps not all shooting stars are falling.