Morning comes too soon
With tiny frigid fingers
Dragging me from my dreams.
Inside the recesses of my consciousness
The language of ballet -
A dancer's feet
Toes curled under
Poised on blocks of wood
Enrobed in pale pink leather
Satin snakes curling up her calves;
Muscled arms gracefully imitating the
Shape of the sunlight until they
Pour like its rays upon the earth -
The perfect choreography for the
Images in my head.
Night comes too late
With a vice grip
Pulling me down into a headlock.
Into the landscape of madness and
Frustration.
Winged demons floating
Just beyond
The screen door of my brain.
Seamless
Dreamless
Neither of which describes me.
