He awoke the next morning looking like
Death.
faceless and alive.
He has awakened
before
with a sharp blade of the sun
piercing through the glass
of his window.
Lightyears it has travelled
for the sole purpose of slicing
his right eyelid
Open.
Weaved in blankets
sewn in sighs
on a sunny mourning
collected his limbs
He spun out of bed.
Steel draft
stale ease
creased skin
Breathe in
Breathe thin.
Yawning.
Where's air?
It is at war with dust.
The way they are at war with
him.
In his eyes anyway.
He decided it was much too early
For war.
So he broke toast.--
Scrambled youth escaped the shell
and changed shape.
What came first?
The morning or the night?
"Where do they go?"
They escape when he looks
and feels around with idle hands.
Check the
Time.
Money Ticks.
crawls. scurries.
sinks its teeth into flesh.
The Silent Ruckus.
Future trickles Distance.
Perspires bullets.
He wipes his forehead dry.
Takes a sip.
His tongue is pinched
throat is numb.
Where is his voice?
He must have left it there
last night.
Drowned in the music
and forgotten by her ears.
forgotten.
Takes a sip.
calloused tongue
hiding behind his throat
washed away in the morning tide
that had brought him to this
Salty shore.
"Where am I?"
He is there.
Flesh and blood
ham and eggs
fork and knife.
Took
his
Time.
Time to go.
He opened the door
and watched Esteamed Reality
condense into a
Brick.
As he slipped Past.
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