My eyes tear
inside their womb
with a shout to feed the morning
[and] the day begins to drown
as I commit genocide
against my waking brothers and sisters
in this invitation to the free verse we call Dawn.
Heavy with shackles
the heavenly bodies and barricades bear down
twisting the nerve in my will to resist
designing the next trap where I will fall
and the paper taunts me with an obituary
and I want sleep
to quiet the head
[and] solitude
to dilute the currents of these facets, roaming free
my face denies the sell
so you walk away, empty-handed.
I want
clear and white
I want the silence of blank parchment
its feathery descent
a lineage of empty thought, and
I want
a cloud with my address
and a stylus
tapped directly [in] to my cranium well.