You Killed The Artist

Pierce stars,
slip them into an abacus.

Let them twinkle
but on a cactus.

Between the bars,
the sky would linger.

Let it exist
robbed of its status.

As you adorn each finger
with the torn stars -

as you bow to Mars
and plunge into Venus -

think once of the galaxy,
think of all the stars.

Did you steal from a womb,
its sleeping foetus?