as it culls the curtains of dawn.
Wide-eyed the window stares back
as we shudder upon reentry.
Re-pegging the tent of a dream
flapping in the reverse twilight.
The magic carpet has morphed
into a threadbare day.
Sitting on the edge of the abyss
between sleep and awake,
rocking in undulating understanding
that fibrillates in slippers unsure.
Awake-walking in a pallor that
smacks in the silvered mirror.
Cantilevered, the plum bob night
balances the ingot sun.
Eyes holding mirrored eyes,
the train of thought speeds around
the camber of dawn, to finally
annihilate the plasma of sleep.
The stairs, in a sludge of gravity,
treacle down, as the banisters rise to
the launchpad of every night's journey,
now refuelling, steaming sinister and cold.
The serial cereal is brimming over
with the milk of human kindness,
when the radio says "terrible news"
and the bubble bursts.
Lanced, the matter of fact flows,
until the pus, desiccated on the day,
burns in eyes awash, and drooping,
back into the silk red coffin of sleep.
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