The star has grown fat
In its sagging heaven. Fit to bust,
It leaks promise across an incontinent sky.
The clouds are smudged, smeared.
The light is thin watercolour,
And even the rain stoked to douse it,
Lingers without knowing why.
The God shits its last
And a country bows, as if threatened.
The birds scratch the sunlight
And even the frightened and ill cannot die.
There is the belief things will change,
And yet the star has grown tired.
As well as this, it lacks language,
But if it did not, would it try?
This loss of explanation resounds
Across the blurred country.
The people peer through the darkness
To catch only the clogged trails of flight.
The star stumbles, leaks
And the cosmic drip becomes treasured.
The scars in dreams swelter,
As the One without voice risks a sigh.