Crow-caw, seesaw back and forth
Above and around the sound is ground against the deep recesses of sleep
Both eyes open, groping and hoping for light to filter in gradients
A razor of sunlight peeks through with insight, seeking to wake the shaken:
bitter and groggy, open but cold -- like the doorway on the morning of a tired blizzard's lull.
Simple phrases replace the spaces of gleeful enthusiasm,
dropping the meaning of subsequent leanings like
“Yes...”, “No...”, “I don't know...”, and “You should've let me go
back to sleep.”
Reap the leavings of rest and heat with quiet entreatments for food and a piece;
slogging with longing, wakeful wandering slakes the insatiated mongering body,
providing direction, sense, and intention to an otherwise immobile clump of resentment.
Parts are now moving, behooving retoolings of kinesthetic gestures -- graceful and soothing;
The oil is burning, and yearning of returning to slumber with fervor is faded and dated,
antiquated by the electric labor of life.
Come with me, outside is brighter;
You will feel lighter, bold with a fighter's intent to dissent with the monkey content on your back.
Toss me a smile and I'll knock back a grin.
Sleep is over until Tired strikes again.