Beyond the looming stain of day, afar
is where one’s body lies frozen–gilded by stars
and the wisps of cold that tease down thy breasts,
cooing bursts of dew from within lost breath.
I speak for the one, but should you query
whom, your insistence does leave me quite leery.
‘Speak for the one who knows not what to say,
and regards boundless confinement as the only such way.
By the stars soaked through one’s cloth,
I am obliged to shed light on flesh; a moth’s
flame to guide the forgotten back from wence
it came–no measure, no morsel of penance.
Starved of immortality and weak under
wings of war, I too feel my flesh torn asunder
by the seeds of humanity that grow about
my oneness; the stars bearing life I am without.
Perhaps I am the one; the gilded expanse,
a folly of the stars in line with the romance
of tranquility and dawn. The irony of a dawn
that is broken but will not break. Where has it gone?