It does appear to me that souls deceased
Whom passed by cancer's deadly spread of mole.
Are gifted special ride to heaven's priest
By shooting stars, to thrill their final roll.
From times of old when they did stare the stars
And ponder; may their time outshine their death.
But bodies virus'd, freckled with their scars
Then idle nothingness with loss of breath.
Whom suffer, fitting that a star it be.
And I do too in wonder when above
If there will be a star awaiting me,
And glance back down, good bye'ng those I love.

It seems that more of shooting stars fly by
How sad it is; how oft we glance the sky.