Early Riser

I rose early today before the dream’s end tried to hold on to its tail before shaken loose, watching the Nightly race off, to dive into the fading dark at the horizon. Dreams are like that: like fairy dust and alien visions avoiding analysis like, where was I before the first slap before the first cry before being bathed dry, then placed in the trembling arms of my mother, beholding her labored miracle parts of me feeling freely sentient while others feeling entirely programmed like cycles of sun orbits of seasons roots of life, the ones I faithfully guess at some of their branches of existence quite explainable while others seeming green-less tentacles drawing me toward the large-dusty-mouth of the Silence Grave