If all the stars were made of paper, bright
And shining with a clean unwritten glow;
An endless ream of shimmering white delight,
Awaiting for a writers hand to flow.
If space was but an inky void, so dark
And gleaming with a glossy coated hue;
An endless pool of glimmering black, so stark
And unused, waiting for its first debut.
If I should take a quill unto the ink,
And write my words on each and every star,
To cover each with all the ways I think,
To tell the world how beautiful you are --
        When every star was blackened with my verse,
        I'd seek to find another universe