In beams that hush my chalked fingers from page;
awoke from dim eyes sown open.

The tender wings I set out such night to fly
instead lay wrapped around me.
Like coffin lids and weary alms they rest,
but my lungs and heart run wild and unaware,
my sight turning to many visions,
all which leave me haggard and worn
—eyes of dream-needles beckoning every strand of hair.

Yet, with a racing beat come the streams of yellow breaths;
lion sun shows his mane, and my lips
break with wonder
with cat shattering
gone beloved underdeath.

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