Orange juice rays that spray down from the sky
through the tight drawn curtains
lands as one smooth strip bisecting the room
softly illuminating the morning.
He grabs tufts of blankets with his toes and tucks
them down beneath his feet
to keep them from cold, or whatever else lurks
in a fresh morning room.
His ears so blue only the Axis could tell,
hear Funkadelic through the soft navy dark
of a room not quite so woken up as to
be a part of the day.
The clock radiates euphoria in soft whispers
of hours more to sleep.
He hears Hazel like on a walnut and lets it
relax every muscle.
Soon he'll decide to colour his own sound,
which stirs under the pulled-up covers
that hide him from a reality spilling in through the curtains
that don't agree with his fields of Blue.