(20 minute poetry)

Day breaks
a thousand different shapes
(an open door policy)
escape's impossible
probably.

possibly is my
redoubt
I cling to the Sun
(a loaded gun)
hide out in space
but
best face forward.

Onward
the light erupts
eyes engage.

Shapes,
this is it
irregular
but
some seem to fit.

I fit in,
repositioned,
tumblers falling into place
best face
forward.

In years to come
some will study
and
call it poetry
or
make mincemeat of me
I
don't care.