Won’t slow, the arriving light, daybreak twisting off the head of the night.
The leafy beings inside my house, they never sway; they are the reminders
that inside this place the world does not turn.

Light coming. Too much haste. We take the holy knife and slit the veins
so to bleed our blood into the machines.

Landing on my palm is a drop of rain that held off when the downpour
decided the alleys and streets must flood; it takes me an evening
to forget its soft death, its crowning so small I could not see it.

The modern human life carries pretense, to lay at the altars of work and
income in hopes one will deceive the new gods long enough to receive
their promises of success, and rest.

I want the light to dally a bit longer, have it procrastinate and tarry,
smell the dark roses, admire the moon, pause before it draws its bow
and slays the breathing black fur I am clothed in.

But the curtains do not lie, those glowing forms, annihilating my
alar visions, alacrity of the morn eating all the shadows, each gulp
a chime.