Wasted Wishes

I make wishes
on stars
that don’t look
like stars.
I pick shapes
with odd colors
or moving lights instead.
This way
I’m not pinning my hopes
to something that died
a millenia ago.
How can I have faith
in something made
of beautiful lies?
So I wish on planets
or satellites
or airplanes
because they are real
and there and honest.
They don’t trick me
into believing
they’re magic.
Those heavenly objects
carry hope for future,
for life instead
of ancient death,
in the ocean of stars
that swim in the sky,
begging for wasted wishes.

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