messier 57

a wordly
is everything
your wordly is

read
like

piece of
substratum
flake

dreaming
of an everything

scent of plath, palahniuk or bukowski

sleeping
like pompeii

trepanning the cranium
with

a tiny metal
angel

and there is nothing

and there is
nothing

and there is

nothing

worth saving

you can see

a star in the sky
having already
burned out

quite some time
ago