in the evenings, I watch sunsets from the porch of my sleeping house, how the sky divides into thousands of tones,

in the mornings, I feel the sun change the flowers of the field letting the light flow as long as it should,
dancing bees cut ways for those who do not know the meaning of life,
it is enough to look at them and the anxiety of our humanity disappears like a last dandelion blown by the innocence of a child,

freshly opened daisies lust in the morning dew, I smile good morning to my faithful friends who never betrayed me, the company of serene petals is all I need in these times lived in imaginary cages,
in the distance, in there are still voices shouting for freedom, then slowly get lost in the daily dust,

suddenly it strikes me a longing to live as before, to walk with my hot coffee on the paved streets, among the lost minds,
to look into unfamiliar eyes and touch familiar hands, to smile even when it hurts and when the night awakens to fall asleep with my thighs uncovered exhausted by the toil of a full day,

 I look at my dry hands from too much gardening, I return to my much-loved present with lovely flowers, tall grasses that reach over my knees, with dreams hidden here and there when I blink…

Resurrected, I arose
for mornings thick with lust
and love and caffeine and naked kisses
And again, when night came
I did too, and fell sweetly, sinfully  
prey to the small death
ushered in with a grand symphony
of your name

What do theologians call a life without events?

The lights of my prison-like room dawn before sun's first blush.
I open sand-papery eyes as my AI announces the morning.

I begin the puppetry of morning routines:
I study my pale inmate face as I polish the porcelain.

I look less of a drowsy-angel than a zombie as I splash cold water
on the face with an almost determined lack of expression.

I’m absorbed in an ocean of predawn cold
as I 5-mile-walk away my sleepiness - this small freedom
- keeps me fit and acceptably sane.

Later, bathed in hot indifference,
and clothed in exhausting obligations,
I dine, at my reserved table, with my gang of irritations.

Soon I’m ready for another taxing day
of waiting for the disease to run its course.

On this winter morning
I’m daydreaming
of warm summer daysprings,
blue lake glistenings,
butterscotch skin,
heartbeat quickenings,
and unmade decisions behind blue eyes.

The coffee is on
It won’t stop simpering
The mugs are jingling
The sugar spoon is glistening
The creamer is singing
Hello, come make your morning Joe
Hurry on now
You’re not paying for this show

I lie,
My head placed between your *******,
Rising and falling with every breath you take,
The smell of your skin,
And the feeling of your delicate fingers running through my hair,
I hear the birds outside singing,
This feels what life is for.

I raise my head to see your smiling face.

"Morning handsome!"

As your voice fills my ears,
I am complete.

You are there in my morning coffee,
I can’t keep it down.