This initial dawn-
The sun appears broken
As the darkness still consumes
This miniature town.
Each day,
My mind is skewed
A singular way
Trying to get an angle
On how to thrive
In this diminutive town.
The day I’ve forever awaken for,
It could still dawn.
Mastering the ideal day,
The perfect future, the ideal being-
Eight glasses of water.
Reside within the lines, the precincts,
The guidelines, the precedent, the impression-
The foremost impression.
The dresser’s mahogany face is flawless,
But each blouse is unfolded, rutted
The shirts are horded in a large pile on the floor
Or vigilantly situated on the counter.
Shown on each sleeve are the eyes that peer in-
Shimmering through the blemishes,
Roving through each niche.
The dresser is abruptly filled.
When you are awaken by the broken sun,
Trek on a fresh horizon out there-
On the east side.
Master that ideal day gleaming in your eyes,
Reach east for the sweet matters,
Break down the china walls with your entire valor.
After all, they are constructed because they can be destructed.
One stone may shatter a glass window,
But one hundred will demolish the house-
Dislocate the stillness.
Let your crayon slither outside the lines,
Form your own coloring book.
We can choose what we give,
But we cannot decide
What we’re given.
Cruise that new horizon on the east side
And release the light
To resuscitate this
Miniature town.
It’s lifeless--it’s forever been dead.
And this alluring mahogany dresser,
Filled with stunning blouses and sun-dresses,
Will collapse in this diminutive town.
Now that I am here, I will be imprisoned
In the shambles of these broken furnishings.
Nock down a few more porcelain walls,
I’m claustrophobic.