Little Star

A zillion miles of night
caress the little star.
One amongst countless
it shines, knowing only itself,
bravely blazing.

For it knows no other way.

A zillion years of light
burst from the little star.
Wished upon, sung to,
followed, all its' shining life.

Little star. Little star.

Probing eyes lit on it;
photographed and spectroscoped it.
Analyzed; they deemed it -ordinary,
tagged it with a strange, forgettable name.
Pronounced it long ago
Dead.
Long ago dead, they said.
The little star,
dead.

Light in the night,
bright dreamy light,
white and a little blurred.
Dead? Absurd.

Something in us
may have died.
But
not our little star.

by James Mills

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