Poem Stolen From My Unborn Sci-fi

Prayer of the morning star

Mother, when shall the stars come out to play?

Pray child, do not seek such answers!

May I call a cloud, who will whisper the way?

Into our land the stars shall come to play!

No, my dear, my shining one,

On this day, no star’s light will bright the sky;

Emptiness set moon and sun, And taught the stars to fly…

But Mother, why?

Perhaps they only lay sleeping, upon vast obsidian bed

Awaiting moon’s great sun burnt cry

A summon, to return to land they fled

Child, long they bore our pain

The moon mourned and sun simply suffered our dying plea

Until the Great Hand loosed their ties;

As for the stars, they were cast into the sea

Existem, Respectare

Were I wrought perfection's image
Goal of present self in mind
What does perfection longingly desire?
All that is lack,
Would I become?

Knowing single state existance
Master of fault, and folly
Stave joy, my feral hunger,
Would I know true contentment.


To understand, to know
To know; will you risk becoming?

Shall we nought be patterned
Perfect in imperfection
For when is there beauty in striving?
That which is attainable, knows not.