Stars and dreams have been in my thoughts lately; sometimes waking, sometimes sleeping. There's no coherent story to tell about them, nothing with a singular event or a narrative or even a cryptic conversation, so I'm appealing to poetry to make some sense of what might otherwise be difficult to convey. To me prose and poetry are the difference between orchards and gardens; when I can't labor for the fruit, I walk among the flowers.
Behind each star may be a dream
So though dark and void may seem
The sky at night like blackened ice
Still flicker phantoms of delight.
Behind each eye may be a fire
Consuming, never ending, lost desires
Rooted in hearts like imprisoned light
Flaring vast beyond the reach of sight.
Past all lights and fires, past all dreams
Past all that sleep or waking seems
I must pass, must pass alone someday
Beyond what all reason or fancy may say.