Astrolabe

I am the mariner, the taker of the stars.  I navigate distant horizons and vast empty stretches of transoceanic space.  My eyes reflect the cosmos, my heart pulsates like a shimmering quasar.  Yes, my almanac and me, long lost love and the glorious open sea.  Holding this brass instrument so tightly in my grasp, I predict the location of these gorgeous planets and the mystical moon.  I reflect with such fond memories on magnificent ancient coastal cities glowing like molten scarlet lava on a hazy far off island shore.  At the very moment of high noon, I discern the altitude of the golden sun.  Under the black velvety richness of midnight, I silently observe the declination of a flickering star at its meridian.  Passing endless quadrants, latitudes and longitudes, I still miss you, I still think of you.  Under sparkling showers of luminous comets that set this indanthrene ocean ablaze, I am forever haunted by you, I forever long for you, but my astrolabe will never help me find you, with its rotating alidade, graduated degrees, and stereographic projection.