On the static shore
of a remote lagoon,
I had dinners in the dark
with the moon up high
and an empty plate
for those who live in starfields.
Distance, relative
when trapped in a cage of echoes,
wandering the streets
of the city of unbuilt houses;
still the silver screen whispers
in icepick tongues,
diminutive and demonic,
shards squatting
the path of imbalance,
while I kept replaying
sequences of near joy,
lodged in secret graves.
I stretched my mind's limbs
to touch the sun's mantle
from the bottom of the pit,
starving and solitary,
in kinship of the king,
with a mouthful of lead.
This war, ongoing and unanswered,
cruel yet incumbent,
never released me
into the freedom of wolves,
but taught me I'll never breathe
the air of heaven.
