Some years ago, I begged for firmament,
a lasting place of honor in your skies.
As days of disappointment came and went,
I learned forever's promises are lies.
Still fighting finite life, impermanence,
this chunk of astral rock would never learn
time's atmosphere is entered only once,
and we glow, white and screaming as we burn.
The cold of space interred within my bones
means any source of warmth is welcomed now,
including immolation.
Had I known
the entropy our years on earth allow,
a reckless plunge would sanction fiery end:
The shooting star is blessed and not condemned.
NaPoWriMo day 8...a palinode to my poem, "Kathie's Song", written over 30 years ago. An interesting exercise in retrospection.
Kathie's Song
I would be content to be a constant star,
or better still, a constellation
shining brightly in your nighttime from afar;
a trusted guide, an inspiration.
Inner motivation pushed me from my place
and sent me hurtling through the skies,
chancing an encounter with your whirling grace
and the shining smiling of your eyes.
Now not driven, only being drawn to you
by planetary force - not gravity,
but stronger still - the sight of someone being true,
the steady pull of honesty.
Plunging, reckless, through your atmosphere of care,
drinking in your warmth until I glow
and burst - a billion blooming wishes everywhere -
too briefly, brightly burning as I go.
I have been condemned to be a shooting star,
one who deals in days and not forevers.
Time too short to catch enough of who you are
to last throughout a thousand nevers.