A Stream of Thought on a Wednesday Morning in Bed
by M. R. Brown
I need out out of
my head.
Paper has lost its
color
and the sunlight is more
an imagination
than a ruse.
Pass from me this
endless dawn
and
break apart these bonds.
The cuffs that lock
my wrists
are
tighter with every
second.
The day passes as
though looking
through
shrouded tree
tops
to find
the falling light.
Alone I sit in the
last train.
No comments:
Post a Comment