The morning light won't be denied.
There is no argument to it
Although we try
To beat the unresponsive surface
'Til it's tender,
Like we feel.
The call goes out
To shadow the light
With that thin dark line
Of mind;
We hurt, and therefore
We opine.
And what shines through must dissipate,
Made numb with distance and day.
The flowers become mute,
No different
From the dissolute voices
Toeing stones in the dark.
Even our breath must be formed as an opinion
— Too shallow, too rough —
That asks "Am I enough?" in every sensory interaction
— Too bitter, too soft —
And joy feels like the cessation of worry
'Cause it has no discernible qualities.
The outside world can stay that way,
Hidden in the glare,
For the rest of the day.
We dig
A bottomless hole
Through the thickest air.
