By Ben Macnair
It is the first thing we see, when the sun has vanished.
A Bright Star burns, overhead, it glitters in a night sky.
A Bright Star glows, hanging, serene.
A Bright Star is slowly dying.
A Bright Star is only the embers of a sun.
A nebulae robbed of meaning.
A Bright Star is something from the past,
Shining in the present,
Lighting our future.
Ben Macnair is an award-winning poet and playwright from Staffordshire in the United Kingdom. Follow him on Twitter @ benmacnair
Northwest Indiana Literary Journal 