Mornings In July

Mornings In July Mornings in July are oblivious. They know nothing about the newspaper headlines Or the relentless crashing of ocean waves Under a pissed off crescent moon. They see nothing. They hear nothing. They feel nothing. Mornings in July are incognizant about everything. Except for the ever silent bruising rise of the sun. But they haven’t heard the orgasmic screams of a billion lovers Seeking mindless sanity on a darkling pillow. And they haven’t seen the struggling caterpillar Spin its bloody violent cocoon. They could care or less if you breathe or sweat. They ceased to be concerned When the big wrecking ball of Earthly existence Came crashing into the big neon Psyche Six thousand years ago. Mornings in July know nothing, absolutely nothing. Except for the ever silent bruising rise of the sun.