Children of the Supernova

I do not comprehend the pattern of stars
etched upon my eyelids -- will they shine
or will they fall? Lucifer was brightest
and I am no angel despite my lies, just
a child walking blind in the great Before,
the world before your pages brought Dawn.

The world does not understand Dawn.
They think of roses, prismatic stars,
not understanding the dark moment before,
the miasma a prelude to the supernova's shine,
the moment we abandoned everything just;
we fought for things that shined the brightest.

I do not suppose I was the brightest,
though I'm not stupid -- I slept through Dawn
and let the beautiful moments pass, just
unhinged, walking through blurry stars,
unable to decipher how exactly they shine.
I lived for the moments to come, the minutes before.

But never the present, before
I knew nostalgia, I knew days, brightest
of all these many years. Moments shine
through, blissful memories, but expectations dawn
with age, our 'success' kills the stars
in our skies, in our eyes, we just --

We die. We die. Perhaps it is just,
we cannot speak the words we spoke before,
lest we incite our unholy idols, stars
that never were, exhalted and brightest.
We were never satisfied with Dawn,
she is too soft. Our lights really shine.

I wonder how these tired humans shine,
so buffed and polished and pruned until just
the 'beautiful' parts remain -- until it dawns
upon their faces, the breathing man they were before.
The stage-lights might shine the brightest
but they are no substitute for the stars.

I was destined to shine -- that was before
I knew just what it meant to be brightest.
I embrace Dawn, flawed as I, but both stars.