Sit and look through the blinds,
Patient wait for the sun to rise,
Fearful wait for the world to wake,
Shadows hiding from morning’s reprise.
The world is more beautiful in this silence,
As I wait for the day to arrive,
When no sun on the morning of will rise;
The day when the day itself will die.
At night, I come alive,
Muttering ancient recipes like poetry
Into the moon-lusted corners of the universe.
For those nocturnal moments
I suffer my daily routine;
Hiding inside my public face,
A spider with butterfly wings.