Small specs of white scatter the night sky.
Each illumination is unfamiliar, and so distant.
The worst part: Looking up is looking at the past.
The scattered sky is littered with ancient visions; death has never been so apparent.

I stare above, watching the lights with an admiration.
My sub-conscious is as scattered as the surly sky.
My past is also the only light I see.

Everything I think is comparison in theory.
If I can't be certain I can't misconstrue an empty perception.
I stare above, deep in thought, my universe is speaking.
My intuition glows, as the North Star guides me.