My flesh-fresh wounds grow lustrous in the quiet light of dawn
Calamities mean nothing to the moon
Dusty doldrums settle here, the sun rises stillborn
As the half-heart world wakes changeless from its starry-eyed cocoon

Diaphonies diaphanous pour over panes like mist
Borne upon a hollow morning breeze
Crawling in my windows, dragged across my face like fists
Soft as clouds, if clouds were hawthorn trees 

Birds may sleep, and bees as well, and lovers soft entwined
Then why can’t I have angels fly behind my eyes and hair?
The wicked shall not rest, I know, but slips away my mind
Without the weight of dreaming sleep, ephemeral as air

My fears all photosynthesise, they rise to face the sun
I pluck their petals gently, blow them eastward one by one.

The End

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