Most mornings he wakes up before the sun,
to a time before the dawn has yet begun,
where he rows out to sea and throws his net,
for the moon, he doesn't sleep long,
in a world where the stars never set.

Pages in one hand and his heart in the other,
he projects words into the glistening moonlight,
poems he kept sheltered like a mother,
afraid to let her children out into the dark night,
hurling crazed words at the sway of the ocean.

He stayed up all this night fishing for the stars,
a slur to his words but the gist without falter,
unconscious this enmity and affection,
was adressed to his reflection,
his poems dead yet lively in the water.