by Joel Groomer

She looked at the stars,

awed by their beauty.

"Oh what a glory it would be

to sit upon a celestial throne!

To be a star,

mother

and goddess

of many worlds!"

And yet my mind began to wonder . . .

why would anyone want

to sit upon such a throne?

A throne? Or a prison?

For what good is it

to be mother and goddess,

of even infinite worlds,

if you may only look on

from a distance?

If every day

you are giving your power,

your care,

and your firm hold

but are taken for granted,

of what good is it to you?

Separated from your kingdom

by a great sea of space

only to watch,

helplessly,

as the people of your worlds

destroy themselves,

kill your lands,

rape your beautiful planets

until they are gone,

and your kingdom with them.

Now, you are alone,

for thousands of years,

watching your planets spin around you

in a dance that used to have

such elegance,

but now is as empty as the worlds themselves.

And you sit,

being mother to no one,

goddess

to no one,

until you too perish,

sending your precious pearls

off into space with your great,

mighty,

explosive funeral,

only to pull them back in and smash them into the grave with you.

Why would anyone

want such a thing?

A goddess?

Hardly.

Merely a prisoner,

held in place

so others may squander their lives in your presence.

Oh star above,

giver of light,

and warmth,

and life . . .

alone.

Her burning breasts

forcing the breath of life from her lungs—

into the souls of those who will never appreciate it.

So I turned back to her

as these thoughts passed.

"Yes, my dear.

Such a glory that would be."