Saddled on black night's shooting star,
towards galaxies of delight,
not knowing whence we come nor go,
leaving a trail of dazzling light.
Twinned by one in our direction,
parts of shooting star's origin,
picking up speed and greater light,
enticing us to follow him.
It remains the blackest of nights,
into realms off-course, not traversed,
nor parallel to co-exist,
but falsely led . . . being coerced.
Aborting aspects of itself,
for in great darkness we now flee,
hoping to discover new light,
to land ourselves protecting thee.
Guiding prophecies to protect,
sent through the ages when less hope,
yet new worlds being desired,
difficult in dark downward slope.
Shooting star continues to shed,
its burdensome load of its weight,
diverting course—new direction,
whereas its twin star will abate.
A ride of no comparison,
shooting star's journey and impact,
now written in the sands-of-time,
imprinting what's laid in its path.