finished
a novel only
to fall into
the next
constantly
scribbling
as i feel
my time is
running out
and no one else
can see all of
the hidden patterns
which whisper
incessantly in
the too loud silence

harnessing all
the loneliness
to sharpen the
monomolecular edge
of the quill
slicing down to
the blackened heart
pumping coagulated
emotional residue
through a faulty lens
where beauty exists

ab astronaut floating
in the emptiness of
all the space he begged for
plucking words from the
fiery tails of comets
to tell something new
far from all the prying
eyes of human impediments
wo say all the right things
with nothing but the
worst intentions behind them