In the night sky I try to find
My brother from another mother
Or perhaps a father, who knows?
I look at the stars and the patterns
Like children's book, connecting dots.
But I know that this is my send off the spectrum
And for him it is as random as his is to me.
Light: the judge of these facets.
We, inhibited by our limited traces.
Who even knows if he exists or not?
And if he does, how far is he?
A needle in the haystack
Or a stack of needles?
Needles, I much enjoy the nostalgia
Of connecting dots on the canvas of the sky
And wait for them to look at us
And say 'Hey! People actually live here!'