(This is not really poetry, not really prose. You can call it "prosetry". Hey, they come to me and I write them down. You figure out the rest.) 

The night they took the stars away,
You'd think there'd be more of a fuss or a bother or some ruckus,
But no and in a sense that made sense for the reason they took the celestial beacons in the first place.

You see, they'd no longer gotten looked at anyway,
At least not as much as they'd had in the past, not nearly as much emphasis,
For once they'd been the only night lights, furiously important to the movings and shakings in this world, setting things right, setting the pace.

But our modern eyes turned blind to their twinkle,
It started slow, as most monumental shifts must, but built, it did, our apathy overcame their draw,
And eventually, in the blink of an eye, the heavenly hosts held their parties and no one still came, or noticed anymore.

You'd think someone'd notice, but without even a wrinkle,
The lights were turned out n'er more to twinkle or shine or cause wonder in the child-like imagination we once held so dear, so inspiring in awe,
Gone from our midst n'er to return, constellations and galaxies and comets in turn vanished with no recourse, like a tide going out but not returning to shore.

So sit in the dark under overcast skies and wonder,
Will we be what we could have in our modernist world with our techno-magiggies and replacements of nature,
Without the skies to beckon us on, keep our heads tilted up, encourage our imaginations and drive our passions no end?

Count the days since it's been and tell me the number,
Since you last took a pause in the night before slumber and bowed down your stature,
Craned your neck skyward and soaked in the glory of a brilliantly black expanse punctuated by stars all happy to dance 'fore your eyes, and think hard and make wishes they'd come back again.

tags: poetry  prose  

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