Night’s Tomb is The Morning. The Sun is engorged with Glory
And Yellow has a Face… The lawns vary from manicured to feral,
and gobs of Time are plundered by the sane and misfit alike…
Because Theories bleed when actual Living dies.
The Sky is Broken, and all the Candy is not even There.
Too many Reindeer in Coffins, choking on Christmas
and sketching garlands on Ponies that never win Races.
Just Dreaming is like constantly Learning to Burn.
I have Teacups for blunders.
And Sunscreen for
Epiphanies.

You?