I wish these words could take me to the stars
And chase away the emptiness inside;
I’m all fluorescent lights and grids and bars,
A warehouse, fully lit, unoccupied —
I wish that poetry was rocket fuel,
And I, a rocket ship that ready stood:
So much of space, unknown to any school,
That I would love to see now, if I could —
I do not want to feel this hollowness;
For I am blinded by the vacant space
That fills up all I am with blank distress,
And leaves me yearning, standing here in place —
Near Rigel or Antares I should be:
Except this desuetude is really me
