At Dawn

Inky brazen haze

Where thoughts are absent

The strangulating coil

Of restraint.

They wend loosely,

Unfettered,

Whispering veracity.

A ghost purring longings for home

Surreptitiously in your ear.

A place where truth becomes slow-rising light

Filtered through paned glass,

Disassembling one intricate piece at a time.

Fragments of truth deftly hidden

In the luminosity of noonday sun.

Calmness sleepily engulfs anxiety’s weight.

Filter-less mental objects take shape

In ways that are different

Than when they sleep below the surface in full sun.

A time to open-up ribs,

Atone for lost pieces of tide,

Enfold disenchantment,

As if embracing a weeping child.

It will be all right.