One cannot help but gazing at the stars
Notice their verisimilitude, their dimness,
Lit through the smog from a distance,
Withstanding sympathy for the other effects of
Some Siberian forest fire halfway around the world away;
Fixating on a razor's edge - or a quill's - one notices
The imminent orange streetlight, reflecting darkly
On obsidian floor. Boasting silently of the night sky's
Palpability, or tangible lull, one must stay
The next best option, stay
The ebbing tides of the night's fervor - thus,
In the penetrating quietus of the dusk
From the respite of the estranged light,
Although you may glean or esteem some restriction
That they are building and from time to time,
You cannot stop, the light is forgotten; the darkness
The strangest product of perception,
Leaves drafts in the shadows, and
Draughts in the dark of hearts.
Only the poet of worldly mind, can remove themselves -
On the bottom step, a spider gazes upwards
Upon his lucratively positioned
Countenance, with infinitely variegating position,
While the poet strokes his hair, thinking of being
Tired of summoning fare - he is hearkening
To the usual nothing, and does not ever venture to return
An imposition of his, or any face alike.
Yet the only imperfect thing that lasts
Of a however meritorious hint of resolution
Is its disparity; he cannot reconcile