From the cold and empty night, a meteorite's hard trace,
Shattered the art museum, a final, bleak disgrace,
A random, aimless cosmic act that no one could embrace,
Leaving behind a total ruin, an empty and dark place.
The critic's grand opus, a work of art he couldn't replace,
The collector's coveted prize, a thing of earthly grace,
The janitor's old trusted broom, which he used to embrace,
All gone, leaving an empty and a hollow, aching space.
The critic's thoughts now wander, in a different mental place,
The collector's wants are gone, his heart no longer in a race,
The janitor's hands are free, from his old, familiar pace,
Each finds a new kind of purpose in the ruin's cold trace.
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