Piece by piece
It slowly builds,
A Corner,
The sky.
The colour blue.
A cloud,
The edge,
The colour red.

At the start,
It grows clearer.
With time,
Breaks apart.

I've come to that age,
when I'm starting to wonder—
about my last words,
before I'm no longer.

Will they be wise,
the words that I utter?
Or will they arrive,
direct from the gutter?

In the throes of passion,
if that's where it ends,
will my last words—
be words that offend?

Or will they be muffled—
by way of a pillow,
by a long-suffering wife;
my soon-to-be widow?

Far from the land,
and seven seas.
The mountaintops,
the tallest trees.

Beyond the clouds
that wrap the Earth,
there came a star
that fell to Earth.

'Twas not by chance
she found her way,
from her home,
a world away.

I'm like you—
I wonder why
a wandering star
should wander by.

Her aim was not
to light the way,
to celebrate
a sacred day.

Nor was it
to grace a flag,
or wind up on
a sheriff's badge.

Her aim, in fact,
to make you think,
or your heart,
to make it sink.

For this is the star
that hears the words
from the voices
seldom heard.

Voices that wish
for one last page;
the ones that wish
for one more day.

So before
you close that book,
at your inbox—
one last look.

Bear in mind
that little star,
counting wishes
from afar.