*

Three fifty-seven a.m.
When you awaken in darkness,
Night not masked by a lamp
Or the glow of a screen,
The lure of sadness
And the clacking path into the void . . .

I dreamt of you
         And tip back
Into consciousness, mere perspective,
My own mythology of the moment
(not enough to stand upon)
Chiseled into cracking stone . . .

The dawn begins to swim through the blinds,
Illuminates every absent feature of the room . . .
    Time grinds away
Every flaw in your ethos.
    Love attains perfection
As every other motive fades.

*

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