Shooting Star

Upon our time machine, the round moon 

Where once we discovered, 

Ensuing together in void dark room 

Walking hand in hand, 

Talking in silent stare... 

Within the silence of hollow irregular sphere... 

Now I lay upon the journey again, 

In the time machine, 

Devoid of your frame, 

The future seems prophets of fables, 

My salt of pain shimmers upon tables, 

The hanging stars, behold as maples, 

The imagery of you 

Consoles my heart, 

I hold your hands in my imagination part

Passes by me, 

The warmth of shooting star, 

Emitting the solace in apparels of 

Birthstone blue, sequin silver, 

Molten gold upon swerving river, 

Solar yellow and polar white, 

The aura was cast and captured eyes, 

I dropped the last swollen tear, 

Wished to be Gepetto, 

And worshiped my Pinocchio to be real