They are no longer

at the bright, glowing center
of creation.
They were once
the definition
of reality itself;
now they are a footnote
in an unread book.
They will not be noted
for their glory-besotted
bloodlettings.
Their mundane concerns
will dissipate in the dull
unwinding of the clock.
Their imaginings and
deepest expressions
would be of no interest
to any mind from a world
beyond theirs.
Their single atom of a home
is no longer under the
eye of One who cares only
for them.
Their real claim to greatness
is that they're made out of
the same five-and-dime
stuff everything else is,
and they know it.