he feels less
like the wise fisherman
than the foolish fish
chasing shiny lures
through the murky depths
of unworldly desire

his scarred lips
from the barbed hooks
of sultry obtuse promises
that are less than
the accumulation
of pain received

yet he sits
in the seaweed garden
of indecisive need
watching while
telling himself he won’t
but knowing he will

drowning
in the lack of watery
atmospheric dread
gills flaring futility
as they pose for pictures
before tossing him back

every chance
to pour toxicity
into the placid waters
of his outer turmoil
like radioactive inactivity illuminating his flaws