Thu, 03/05/2015 - 22:02 -- kiarakr

Doe-eyed lids

scrape away

the beads of my dreams,

opening me up to the kind of morning

that mumbles.


The me I know is the dawn of myself,

what is left when I

unfasten from my


slow yawns and vertebrae that crack

one by one, in formation.


I am the dew that covers the surface

of the mirror,

and the swipe of a hand

that reveals the unfiltered crispness


This poem is about: 


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