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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Im half awake, and glaring at the sunrise distant brilliance slowly eating at my dry eyes squinted to best witness the aureate Apollo refract off blades soaked through with dew heaven's first blush, midsummer quiet, and coffee scent cast clarity, light unveiling the burden weighing down on every living being clearest with the coming of the day burning black holes into my brain's blank slate sundering my soul 'till shatter state fast approaches on the infinity of empty space veiled out ahead of me Restless with the lethargy of baring witness I stir the pit, and catch flames leap up from within carbon prints of gray matter quelled embers lay suffocating beneath ash dunes and smoldering phoenix feathers matted and clumped by filmy deliquescence spent of all but their will to rise again. I grasp at the green broken glass strewn about my feet like seeds planted by last night's ignorance and the sin of forced forgetting that we all someday pay recompense for our vice's and the gluttonous way we all practice immoderation. The world is quiet in lull humanity lost to an illusion breathing soft and sleeping soundly altogether We exist to want and rub against the way the world turns on a crooked axis, each moment less lucid than those sunspots and dewdrops coursing through dirt-clay veins and branding the cracked dirt with morning I cant shake loose the afterimage imprinted on my blunted senses experiencing everything I reach is less than whole understanding the universe exists as fragments blackened in spite of time's one plight forever pulling it apart The sunset split the sky, the fire danced and spit, and the condensation clotted. I seized eternity that morning amidst the doldrums of sleeping masses its truth intimate and calming. I sense slumber cease and the suburbs rustle the dreamers stumble about in waking to shower away their sweat and dreamt delusion start their cars, and drive away in sync I listen closely to their heavy sighs the shift of sagging shoulder plates, bent under with Atlas tugging at the reins kind's struggle never ceases to echo off of terra firma, quaking with each clanking of the chains that bind our beating hearts to alarm clocks, freeways, work weeks and the torment of monotony
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