An introduction to the series in poem.

Oscar Wilde, the man loved stars

They surge silently

Unfazed by the night infinite.

Stars blaze bravely bright

Not unlike the unseiged light

From the fields they stare distantly at

Farther still sat gazing I.

Stars mark their own scars

With unheard rhymes that fuel their capes fluttering stark

Holding their duty with anger just

Stars, their indurate crust.

Racing down the skyline

Towards the awaiting flowers

From the black canvas they shower.

Beautiful are the meadows

But it is not our McGuffin.

Behind the attires our story hides

Between the lines it’s written.

If we could blossom where the verdance are,

The stars might see us too,

But petals latched onto a walnut marred,

Is always a bloom untrue.

Our opus magnum,

A star unfinished.

The solar system implodes

A light relinquished

Past us shot millions

Never cherished

Still we’re alone

To crash before the fuel burnt finished.

Soon diminished.

They hang so far from the gutter we saunter in.

Too far to reach.

But they casually fall to these worlds we also wander in

Too bright to seize.

With that strength with luck we are mustering,

Slowly releasing that iridescence we’re clustered in.

Barely a starlight glow.

And if we catch one ever meandering

Misguided by the shimmer we’re dusted in.

We have to let it go.

To every star:

I hope that you find a flower that can relish in you

So that light can shine in another image anew.