Nighttime, the stars all fallen from the heavens
Their incisory teeth leaving wounds across our hands
Where are you now that they've become infected?
Why, when I call, do you refuse to answer?
Am I alone beneath the descending constellations
Open sores festering while you search for reprieve?
Are the consequences mine and mine alone,
Their aftermath having known none for relief?
Do the stars drift weightlessly into the sea
a home, a refuge, or mausoleum?