Through a Filthy Lens (a poem)

Comets are beginning to bore you.

They lack the lively glow of silky sheets,

laying through entangled streets filled

with blaring cars and concrete stars

that last a life time. The milky way your
mind turns cannot feel the blind burns
while distracted.

Strangers litter your name in veins,

shooting dust just to gain a euphoric

smile. Your eyes are glazed under the

moon as you stare into a cosmic

lagoon of murky clouds and mudpuppies

that shroud themselves behind shooting stars.

Comets are no longer worth wishing over.

You’d rather be mesmerize by the tiny dots and pulsating spots

that induce your colder outer space highs.