tabloid mirrors

we are all sand-specks
who, gazing into a tide of time,
see ourselves as stars.

and so we clump (artistically)
to form exclusive galactic masses.
no one on the edges can see
that we're spiraling together
into a dense-dark pinprick of
warped extinction.

instead, we shoot meteors
to announce the comings
and goings and birthing and fusing
of our brightest (loudest)
fellows.

sucked towards the horizon,
we laugh and send silver
light-speed whispers
about scandalous winking, or
the landslide expansion
of our best and brightest
idols.

they are fueled by our fire,
rising and falling
with our starry adoration
(sand worshipping silt)
until they burn out.

still, we watch them
as our very centers warp
and twist, writhing
beyond our notice.

because doesn't everyone love watching
a supernova?