When you wished upon that star,
You wished and wished you’d go so far.
Yet far for you and, in this instance,
May not cover the same distance
As roads traveled by some others,
Calloused fathers and weary mothers.
They provided you with imagery
To further creativity.
Plants of life and literature,
Nurturing their miniature.
Yet by the window, you still sit,
Open book, not into it.
Waiting, maybe, for that cricket,
Who often solves the sticky wicket.
The sport of it, the fun and cheer,
Gazing out, is it out there?
The truth, the truth, nothing but the truth,
“That’s my goal,” would say the sleuth.
To get to the bottom, the core, the heart,
Of why you’re wishing on that star.
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