Tomorrow
When comes the morning--with the touch of
Night's fingers raking their sorrow across the sky,
Its dreams closed off from consciousness.
It comes, bruised from Night's attempt for shining--
Colors marked--red on orange, pink on yellow, purple dreams.
The skies are dawning her spirit's wings.
Fire likes from the sun, burn with torn tears, at waking
From asleep's breaking. Self is free, like the light,
Going straight nowhere.
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