Morning Risen, Mourning Call
morning has risen;
my reflection is day's color
as i lay still in the wetness of last night
last night,
the clock on the wall
beat faster than my own heart
as its hands moved slowly,
like yours, but without touch,
i arched my back,
reaching,
moving in and out
of the shadows on the wall,
making love to memories,
or nothing at all.
more winded than the air,
i drifted off to sleep
one last time,
wearing the white of your lies,
i was paler than the moon,
and bled myself into morning
to mock its rise,
but it rose alone.
Copyright © Sandra Adams | Year Posted 2012
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