A nebula develops
From a little opening on a stage
And slowly turns to a star
To throngs, just like a celestial body
That blazes light, for those afar
To witness, the burn of gases
And with time, the star power grows
Until you’re battling your wrinkles
And the sagging protein in your flesh,
And the cataract in your eye,
And if you’re meant to be
A brilliant star, they paint a little boulevard
In Hollywood, with a handful of stars
That passers-by walk on, and if you haven’t had
Enough of stars, you get to be like
An artist who painted Starry Starry Night.
Of course then you become a cataclysm,
A supernova, when every paparazzi
Will carry a picture of you
In your prime. And in that ageless
Vacuum you will rest in history,
A legacy of a man, who painted happiness
On faces and made suburbia
Happyville and yet, died a lonely soul
With only a few sharks around
Searching for a name on a will
For a slice of meat, that in earnest
Packs a spaceless invisible vault
With a tail of zeros.
