First thing in the morning

“A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us.” (Franz Kafka)

                                First thing in the morning,
                                While still cushioned
                                In the limp warmth of
                                My immaculate lingerie,
                                I reach out lethargically
                                To it, the immeasurable gift.
                                I open it randomly and read
                                The poem, the story, dense blackness
                                Gathered on tender sepals
                                Of pliable, peachy nature.
                                Is the needed gulp of breath
                                To fill with purpose
                                Of another awakening
                                My too hardly graspable pith.
                                So, as the letters transfigure
                                Into flashes of thunder
                               *Pulled from cryptic yet so
                                Hauntingly familiar
                                Heady wells of tears,
                                Whether joyful or grievous*
                                Upon entering my eyes
                                And traveling beneath, deep,
                                Droplets of sweet
                                Blood, ooze in and wholly spread
                                The vital shocks of begged
                                Other diurnal revival.
                                Thank you for giving me sense.
                                Live it to write it. My essence.

The photo’s source

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