The stars, those unreachable certainties,
Have flung themselves from the sky,
Forsaking their honor, ranked in the heavens as
Prophet and Poet -

Desperate to join the souls whose follies and joys
Have captured their affections -

Hopeful to see clearly the faces of those rash and revered
Beings who point in awe and wonder only half of the time.

And now, these wistful, traveling admirers
Twinkle not from the Heavens,
But from blades of grass, where Mother Earth has
Tenderly softened their fall -

Peering back into an empty, paling sky as Day comes nigh.