look at me.

look at me.
oh god, why won’t you look at me?
i dreamt last night
that my words had wings that
carried you
was it to me?
it must have been further away.
still, i stay
and pray that you will
look at me.
oh god, why won’t you look at me?
if words have wings then
mine are three pigeons
flying in a a grey flock of
three thousand.
you can’t hear them squawk —
i lost them and now you won’t
look at me.
how can you hear something
that you can’t see?
oh god.

© 2016 Stellular Scribe


What Earth? This Earth
shall no longer harbor me.
This life, written
red in a charter, sees
no salvation but the
swift and cruel release,
and then to hell —
I sell my prayers of peace.

What stars? These stars
will not freeze my fate,
nor render for me
those ivory gates
that I thought too small
to quench my appetite.
Ah, they’ve grown so tall —
and I so slight.

What soul? My soul
was slashed by the pen —
no, by avarice.
I scoffed at wise men
who shed feathers in my lap
and begged — no, prayed,
when my blood sapped
that my hunger be staid.

© 2016 Stellular Scribe