In this museum of paintings,
You'd be the abstract one,
For the paints that brushed over an empty canvas,
Would never have been so flawlessly done.
All the people admiring the finesse you hold,
Would not have ever known dear,
That behind these mesmerising galaxies,
Lie tonnes of your fear.
Fear of becoming just another galaxy,
Or just another grain of rice,
But darling why'd you forget,
That your worth can never be priced?
Because even in a library of magical stories,
My heart would be thirsty to look,
Only for something so enchanting,
That's your galaxy, my favourite book.