Skeletons

Let's say we have a pair of skeletons.
Beautiful, hollow beings
Slivers of bone
There's a certain glamour in their death.

Let's say we give these deathlies their due.
Let's give them a star.
A star, a star, what a glorious star.
Bright eyed, as it plummeted down to the stratosphere to meet its fate.

The skeletons are delighted with their gift, their joints cracking and mumbling in the breeze.
They string a leash of promises and past lives around our dear star's neck.
Pulling, pushing, tugging malignant beings, tossing the star around in it's deathbed waltz.

Dearly beloved, dearly departed. Where all fallen stars go to die. Somewhere before dawn, our precious's star's heart clams up. Becomes bone.

Industrialized now, the deathbed waltz is manufactured by those skeletons outside, drowning in the rain.

Our star is dead. Long live the star.

May god save the supernovas that waltz tonight.