The official opening of day
lifts the blinds off night. The worms
Of dreaming feast on the
history of sleep, devouring the angels
that attempt to free me. A warm fresh
breeze softens morning. People in cars
search for fields, escaping the wickedness
of the game of where they should be.
Its easier for the pen to become a weapon,
rubbing salt in the wound of words,
exposing the pain will cleverly hide.
Roger Singer 