the shooting star

sometimes i like to follow the comet - chase the many heads and tails of mystery's universe. does she go out with a bang? or is it this forever silence between us; someone is not saying the full truth. i swear this is not perjury, it never got dripped in this black and white, and the matter of the point i insist! said the damsel whose pouting looks did her no good at least not in the way she likes to define those grace like killer instinct she holds in her claw, then she talks a lick - this had better be good. and i was choking with hysteria when the pink face woman began to scream because her aim had gone off base. in fact it was so off base, it took off my cap till i found myself to be a shooting star - and i did not go straight to the moon. i ended somewhere between today and the many memories now etched in the sketchbook i like to think of as mine. you see, someday, i might. i just might want to pay the sky, tell my enemies and friends alike that there is no point in this senseless war. of hate and love, the comet has caught up with the star which has now landed. landed solidly on my realm off - existence. then i tell the woman no longer screaming that the sunflower tied on her hair is no longer going to beam for the sky. someone has to come down first, the realm of no existence seemed to prick a hole in this dense dark matter. it warps, it climaxes into many boring worm holes and they no longer wonder about time, wander through tunnels. they've become accustomed to the enriched matter lying side by side. it's their only way of conversing these days, though you better not stare too long.