They say grieving is different for everyone,
But they can never truthfully explain how.

It was not until my south star exploded
That I could understand how many constellations would be ruined

Like the godmother who would forever spend Saint Patrick's day drinking in memory of both nephew and mother;

Like the little brother who was forced to become the oldest;

Like the uncle who shuddered at seeing his own son's demise too clearly;

Like the step-mother who would hate herself for being right all along;

Like the friend who would cut up his life with the same murderous knife;

Like the father now blinded from the absence of the son's light;

And like the sister who was forced to break the promise of future reconciliation.

None of them could understand how the planets had aligned this way,

And none of them could find their former orbit,

But rather, would follow the path of the star dust left behind

Flinching at it as if it were glass,

Embracing the sting

Because it is all that is left

Of the brightest star in their sky.