Early Morning Views

Whatever should I do now? The sun has risen, but my ideas have gone. My muse, the moon. Ran  from the sun. Now I just sit, the room too bright. Bad music covers worse sounds. Fragile serenity as the world awakens. The birds are singing, hear them above Bach. The sky is white, dirtied by gray clouds. Colors gone gray.

In a little room, sanctuary found. Shadows, there are. They hid little things, away from bigger eyes, and give seekers dirty surprise. Ikon watch over, a mockery of the word. Lamp of little light, seems to fight. Book towers surround the dais of covers. Shirts drape the throne, socks the floor. Old bottles line the windows, dead flowers accompany.

Walls are stone gray, floor outgrown pink. Orphaned furniture, marks of other lives. More books stand sentry, gathered in rows. Idols hang about, paper art. A star of wind, a circle of illumination on plaster sky. Windows draped in dark, staving off sun. Statue in corner,  gold eyes watch personal humor.

Red graces the stage. A mound of black at end. Plump purple pillows repose. Woven blanket crumpled, pushed by heat. Dark stands intimately reach, pale face consecrated sleep. Pouty lips move slightly, whispered prayers to God Sleep. A sigh, a yawn, green looks at brown, half covered with heavy lids. A tug, a noise of amusement, ah what patience.