Staring at the sun, defining
a cluster of sleeper stars, are you?
Or are you a liar, too?
Have you too much time on your hands,
too much wine-caked blood, have you?
Yet to grow old, not to be mistaken
for your years, look-
He knows and he’s shining bright with knives.
Playfully piercing your vision, because
you’re hiding. Hiding before your lies.