The voices rose aloft – choral

song a matin more apt than winged

chirping and spiral ascension of notes

natural, yes, though lacking

in human sentiment.

 

Heavy, the remnant somnolent veil

this morning; limbs disinclined to lift

from sheets yet warm with sleep – the deep

and the actively dreaming.  Creases

scars of memory no skin

should keep.  White noise

crackles, dissipates such thoughts, sounds,

and – struggling – she places soles

of feet to floor, so cold.  Toe to heel;

heel to toe: kitchen-bound march

a forced rhythm to wake

to semblance of survival.

 

Red-painted smile, symbolic

mask, of later arrival would come.

She raises a hand to half-closed eyes:

What light, but 

what purpose the sun?

 

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