And so soon the day had come to an end,

The writers and the critics all obsessed by their pens,

For they knew how to wield them, mightier than swords,

But knew that they would be useless unless backed with a cause,

Clashing beneath the amazed pinnacle's foot,

Focuses became so narrow, all eyes were nigh shut,

And the only things wrote about were the stars.

 

From on high they saw their reflection in the night,

As the waters shimmered with shadows in the meagre light,

The artists and the zealots came to bring their praise,

Amidst the spectacle, they were beguiled, awestruck and dazed,

Like swine to the slaughter, they congregated once again,

Nothing could prepare them for what was to happen then,

And the only ones missing were the stars

 

Then, during the permanoon, paranoia took hold, 

All so sleep deprived, eyelids became worth their weight in gold,

And the last question asked was one to remove all doubt,

Were the measures worth what they were then without?

As all replied in unison the irony was complete,

Making all the more so visible in their time of fleet,

And naught looked on despairingly except the stars.

 

Half conscious, a woman stubbed her toe,

As she cursed, the fading sense of time began to slow,

The other members of the household, peripherally alive,

For restoration to normality, she decided they would strive,

For so many things were corrupted that she'd once held so dear,

In place of love and adoration she felt contempt and fear,

Feelings shared by all below the stars

 

Later so many simply ceased to care,

Was it something in the water or perhaps in the air?

Or maybe to look towards what once was the night sky, 

The luminous revelation tore through the veil of the lie,

Yet not before the madness broke all that they'd been able to mend,

But no-one responded outside of a small circle of friends,

Who prayed up to where once were stars.

 

And the Earth reached out with a widened maw,

The devastation continued without the wars,

As the imposing lights existed but for their pride,

And nothing that then came from them was denied,

As the evening became a stubborn mule,

And the luminous tyranny continued its oppressive rule,

'Naught left to progress' sighed the stars

 

Then the comic and the sceptic were as one,

As none could recall exactly what was gone,

In the fiery fields all around,

The dimness was all but drowned,

Looked on by the all so enthralled,

The rich, the poor, the wise and the fools,

None of which, then, were the stars.

 

The cyclic nature of such has to amuse,

As the blindness endures despite all of the past clues,

Time repeats so often, a poorer story seldom told,

Yet to hear it again, just look at what's been sold,

While the words and the characters surely change,

The sentiment remains with each passing age,

Under the scrutiny of the stars.