An Ode to Morn Rising…
Do I choose the refracting light
that infuses my dark slumber,
teasing my sentience
to slovenly find hold of thought,
that in disparity cracks my reason
like a fleshly fallen egg?
Perhaps this awakening, harsh,
temps my anger to swing,
eyes clenched, fists white-knuckled,
but a languid strike, too effortless
to arch, a back so nestled deep in warmth,
so listlessly aught to savour sleep some more.
This light so bright, like rays in laser point,
striking flesh to burn,
antagonising a darkened room,
and no, I did not choose this affront,
morning such an inconvenience, so blunt
yet sharp upon a vision maligned by time.
Morning and all its glory,
faces a furrowed brow,
that hardly allowed such radiance,
to invade one’s temple, one’s sacred chamber,
where dreams are plucked from time’s sweet woe,
to eloquently sew the seeds of life’s attire.
Now thought does tempt a mind, to present be,
and damn it, if my eyes did not open to check,
that night had lost the bet
and slithered into shadows just to breathe,
so now that nest is somehow bereft,
and risen I am, half sitting up, a mess.
I did not choose this light,
that tore my curtains open in perilous plight,
and beneath those covers, squirrelled in,
I could not escape that morning din,
somewhere in my head,
like echoes of the dead rising, and I one of them.
Tony DeLorger © 2017
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