O’ Our Stars

Not obtuse
Not acute
Not Hell-bent for the stars

I must go
I must be
I must give what is ours

If you look
If you ask
If you promise what’s true

You will find
You will learn
You will become who’s you

Sky Askew

Where is the what

or the Who that explains

the oft’ fruitlessness

of my overall mess and the how I say yes long before I have said I know why?

When my proclivity

to touch humanity’s

innate toxicity

brings my doom, what is it that lauds me and steals the sharpest wits gifted me?