Pointing the stars

Just when we come to the point,
We are less pointed in the finger
And our point is lost in silver fish.

We like to point precisely a wife
Flickering with saint a little dimly,
Not too bright for his effulgence.

We like to show the spilled milk
In the sky’s highways, carelessly,
Our space vehicles lost in them.

We like to see boy on king’s lap
A step mother pushing him away
And now flickering star material.

We have not done with pointing
To a wide eyed child of disbelief
And our eyes are lost in silver fish.

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