I am a pote

For I am a pote
With words I coat
A slaking moat
I am a pote

For I am a pote
I hoard for heights
To seek for might
I am a pote

I am a pote
At times I choke
On words unspoke
For I am a pote

I am a pote
I’m sad and broke
But very much stoked
For I am a pote

Through the oceaned sky I grope
With perverse blind eyes
Finding a fix to ruin the stagnancy
Of the rotting black wounds of my idleness
And through massive liquid windows
(At times of a darkening green
At times of reaching my glassy eyes
At times when I stop
And start again)
The starries,
They bare all ten fingers of their souls
Waving it a thousand and more times
To pull me in their shrouded thoughts
And I get unsobered with their liquored words
I get moved
And hope for strokes
To stroke hopes
And I am a pote