Is the Well Yet Dry

Burning holes in the ground, little circles
Streaking out uneven on the edges, like sunspots
Inverted starlight in the dust of the earth
Five little rings, for five little fingers
Little digging fingers that clasp around the dirt
And set loose upon the sky
Dead soil, barren like your brain of late
Anxious that you're out of time
Before you've even begun
That below the dead earth
Is only more dead earth
And those five little circles
Are the only seeds you've left to sow
Their growth a symptom of
Your idealist intoxication