With I casted star, and you as scope;
We each hold still, a child’s hope.
That surely as spring
The sky will roll back
The star will fall
And the earth will crack.
But, with truth, is the star of importance?
Or a numbered pawn,
For the softly spoken wish?
But a thought naught many,
What shall be of the star,
When it’s already fallen?
Lying in the dirt
Having already been wished upon
What love shall happen?
Nothing.
The wish granted,
The star dying.
For in the morn’,
‘Tis not my place.
The star shan't get up.
wrote this at the age of fourteen about a boy who was really a man and told me I was prettiest when I cried.