The pre-insomniacs
know nothing of the stars
And none of their amorous prayers
Or any way
The highest noon confessed
At the pulpit of the raging sea
When nothing came half romantic
But the oceanic lone wolves
Dying on cold tears
And prone to scenic anarchism
To answer the dying songs never to last
Sunlighted
Seahunted,
With their bare legs
Penning down your name
Upon asked
What would they grant
For the tombstone in the noon
And the star post-romantic
They muttered:
“None but your moon—”
In exchange, for those wolves
Are only
Your lone loves