Préoccuper une étoile

Who is it that I am to seek out another?
That this self is ever wandering the skies,
losing its light in the consuming night.
Yet search we do until callouses form
on our hands, which grope in darkness.

Where is the wind blowing?
Which secretest of paths will it lead us down?
Should we ask first why we follow
instead of wandering where it may?

I know not why and I often ask.
Perhaps someday there will be an answer.
For now, I follow the path
and wonder when I will meet
those eyes meant for mine.

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This is what happens when you stay up late at night. You write moony poetry. Or so it goes. Enjoy.