Morning
Running down a darkened hallway
Towards an opening door
Where light floods around
And falls in upon the floor
Suddenly there is sound again
Rushing, scraping, scratching
And an end to thoughts and dreams
To schemes of reddened skies
To floating boulders slowly turning
To sweeping clouds of yellow
And the bellowing, aching roar
Of a lone walrus upon a deserted shore
To the flutter of dry and dusty leaves
Driven, wind-blown, swirling
To the clatter of hooves
Of blue-skinned ponies trotting
Through a cold and empty square
The space echoing back the sound
To the voids of blackened eye-holes
Of grotesque, trembling skulls
And which, after an endless time
Slowly dissolve and desiccate
Into the crystals of the waking world
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