Tints of gray and star-
Shines mar your passing
So that you become a mere blur
Under the spotlight.
You weave a world to behold
Whenever you sleep
And nothing is left of it
But the rubble of haunted cities
And cold husks of deserted homes.
There is nothing to recover from,
No hope of building and rebuilding
Your fallen race,
No memory of what they have done
To the stars
That seek out your birth.
From The Journal no. 13 (Spring 2005)