on the sides of the teacup of morning

and its shade, the sun seethes like sorrow

of night past. the wait for momentary lapses

in its recognition passes. realisation soon

dawns upon the cracks in the floors that lead

to another dead memory. for hours, listlessly,

eyes have been wiped clean of visions;

the fickle nature of shadows will not change,

or metamorphose into something full of stillness.

 

the need for silence tip-toes, traces the lines

of where light had rested, and then moved;

shimmering, hope pierces the air with

stunning accuracy, brushes death from limp hands

and floats. a statue released of the stoic curse shivers

and cries; eases itself from prisms of the truth

of lies and balanced perfection, embraces fragility.

then with nervous palms, lowers to the floor, blows

softly into thin dust, presses an ear down, and listens.