how many idle landscapes
and unturned stones of fancy
have dissolved to into light
at the sight of the rising sun?
pull back the curtains of your phantasy
then pull back the curtains of your window
and let the dreams melt until
the night is a somnambulant pile.

the thoughts of your skull being pounded by morn
the unborn remains of the musings of muses
eyelids drooping and, with hesitation, rising,
and then your body does the same.