You.

You're like a constellation; 

choas in a celestial ballet, 

a series of explosions so beautiful

we forget that inside you 

a fire is raging. 

It must get lonely,  

people gaze at you for centuries

but always from light years away. 

Men build you temples

without knowing your name. 

Really, it's not their fault. 

You make destruction look like heaven. 

They cannot hear you cries, 

they cannot know 

what it is to collapse.