Surrounded beaconing stars,

stories were written by hues

of night amidst 

the silver glint 

of mist anew.

Beneath the smoking, 

dense stars, 

within the grasp 

of infinity.

Numbers of unwritten tales,

counting off

the seconds to find

what we seeking.

So I perversely circle the late stars, drowsier and drowsier, sleepily longing for something."

― Sylvia Plath