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.


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