Old stars die in December,
They just can’t shine anymore;
The days they still remember,
Have fallen to the floor,

Like film-reels that have clattered
From out of cans on shelves.
(No more eyes behind dark shades,
They’re free to be themselves.)

And no more heart-felt accolades,
As they’re wheeled out on the stage,
To legendary screen-clips
From when they were all the rage.

The lights will dim on some bright ones,
And we’ll all shed a tear.
Old stars die in December;
They won’t see another year.

Kat Mortensen©2014