Comet
Coleridge, crucified,
wearing a crown of pens
On his right, Rimbaud, bleeding ink
On his left, Kafka, nailed to a desk
Black blood collects in pools
They scream to the
setting sun
Slaves to art, touched by eloquence
lower crosses on ice
gently pull out the nails, and
set them free
Sun gleams on
Songs of kings echo in city streets!
Now stand
stand on ice,
in the middle of a large lake, in January
looking up at unobstructed heavens
the Milky Way,
the planets,
the stars,
distant galaxies
insignificant?
quite the contrary
YOU are a galaxy
Tonight, I am a comet