i connect the stars
with fishing line
creating a net to
elucidate this feral
longing clawing at
the back of my throat

carefully knitting
a tapestry from the
open mouths of
dying poets screaming
hoarse curses into
the setting sun

grasping at the bars
of enforced solitude
while salvation stays
just out of reach
behind a paywall that
empty promises cannot breach

a tumor of needs left
unfulfilled and soiled
discarded dreamthistles
growing into a field of
aggressive agitations
as far as the eye can see

i am a faulty fisherman
weaving dander into
cloudbanks to hide
the shimmering lines
between the dying stars
resplendent in scarred desire