MORNING BREEZE
and my muse sleeps far away
words are not daydreams
images have no flesh,
but I touch my journal
bringing back to life her voice
her face smiling for a growing minute
inspired creations,
maybe think of tomorrows
morning growing cold
books waiting to be read,
what story can be told through the filter of heartbreak?
nothing works not even a shot of whiskey
and yet I look out the open window
my kitchen silent yet filled with years
I can’t name them anymore,
there is a wish hidden in all of this
but it is impossible to imagine
even on paper
even when asleep
so I walk out to a cold December day
and try to rediscover the language of Christmas.
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