Poetry

Will pursue 
the star killed by a limb. 
A black hole 
is going to devour him. 
 
What was ahead now 
in the sea of reverse pain? 
You were knocking out 
your own creation. 
 
In the hunger's wake 
will you stop eating your own 
words and say something 
of the locked doors of eyes? 
 
I cannot sing the scars 
and unmask the fires. 
It is gratifying when you are silent, 
and still you are heard.