Cynosure

The brumous man wafts the smog away While the children burn bright, ready to play Ordering the stars that seldom shine Forming stories and shapes from braziers within Strung along with twine 

and passed from kin to kin 

Riding along their tales and prophecies Connecting their imaginary lines 

that will shift by vast, dark seas 

and darken with scarlet wine 

Blind to the brilliant aether 

yet always reaching for more, for other sprawling on picnic blankets 

or peering through shiny trinkets