I see prisms of light atop their ruthless shurikens
Whence innocence goes and squats upon
Fixed frisbees. Who would accuse stars of has-beens,
Of falling dark light upon their smirchless countenances?
Who would tag all-powerful colors in the sun, harp
With the burden of casting shadows? There are pyramids
Made blunt and soft; there are yet stars chosen for sharp-
Tonguedness, dispossessed carriers of wanderlust.
And they are not even the paragons, not even the best
In the range of forebears. I see prisms of light atop
Their ruthless shurikens, and an immense tempest
Where dissidents hitch rides on the tip
Of a pyramid who has lost all equanimity.
Who would arraign the prisms for playing communal
Pony, to the behemoth ruthless shurikens, as stars free
Themselves of galvanization--and spiral to interpretation--
The daze of man? The cunning star was first
Celebrity supplying power, so grant it hegemony
Over light-bending regurgitation, burst
The pointed edifice's unbecoming bubble.
And I see prisms of light atop ruthless inert shurikens,
And I see P O L ARIS
Underneath the anointed crown of has-beens,
As the stars question my observation.