the sky in the morning
(early, early, a bit too late)
is pitch black,
a glistening scene—
obsidian and morose—
like an ink stain
on your best dress shirt;
it glimmers,
coyly breathing,
drifting, pulling,
gravity on the mind,
yanking the words
from your brain
like a crow picking
at its dinner,
like an artist
ready to melt
all over a blank canvas,
like a paradoxical thief
robbing you of your
worries and sleep.
there is sleep and then there is writing; my muse sees no distinction
