One hundred and seventy five stars burned bright,
On the palms of his opened hands,
He captured their full power and plucked
Their never-ending strands,
By calling on lost planets,
To guide his spaceship home,
He then closed his hand upon them,
To retain their certain glow.
Countless universes tilted,
His fingertips pointed towards five suns,
Swirled lights in far-off galaxies,
Where an explorer’s mind yet runs,
Created a wanderer’s existence,
From the shells and shards of hope,
He measured out his future plans,
From the end of a telescope.
Etched within his lifeline,
Were the flickers of a comet’s tail,
Braided down his length of wrist,
To leave behind a dotted trail,
The line to his heart was shielded,
By the blur of a black hole night,
But the line to his head was revealing,
Many moons and a second sight.
His destiny remained hidden,
Though the heavens opened anew,
Pouring down in meteor showers,
The lone spaceship that he flew,
Back on earth or still in flight,
Maybe time will only tell,
Of the wisdom of that searching man,
Who from fallen stars once fell.
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