Falling Stars

He will not die anymore. The falling stars
shall never call his
name again.
Issues, always issues, circling him as he questions
the slacking stop
signs
which he sees almost everywhere.

The fish are biting but he is not fishing.
The sky is blue but he is not looking.

He sees only germs in his
self created misconceptions.

Arrive, you stupid dying man.
Arrive, be what you were meant to be.

But voices will beckon
and they will demand attention
to the make-believe
plastic hearted whores
who submit their eyes for scanning
in the material zone of the cemetery.

He runs, but he does not know why.
He screams.

His anguished sound
filtered through
his self-perceived dying.

He is dead. He always has been.
Ever since he woke up from his bed.

Call him, he cannot answer.
Look for him, he is missing.