The stars are fed up
With their lackadaisical arrangement
They want order.
To be counted -
We all want to be counted

The stars are fed up.
They each demand a name, a story –
And to know there exists
A finger that formed them
With only the best of intentions.

The stars are fed up –
They know they at least belong together
In that place they have collected
But they insist on a greater belonging -
To have been scripted into a bigger plot.

The stars are fed up!
They won't accept an existence
That could be just a haphazard placement
They want to mean something,
To be counted.

 But we all want to be counted.