Early mornings
were not made for
slight-stepping on broken clouds
ballerina-toes pointed down to nowhere
endlessly reaching for
empty sky

When your eyes
are borrowed
by the moon
to give the light
a lustrous shine

Scatter-plots of thoughts
connect the dots
under a patchwork quilt
of sweet-sounding-silence
ending in violet violence
with the army-boot tramp
of a pre-dawn paint-can

4:17
designed by
a nameless entity
donning a trench-coat
made of secrets and stars
wanting more out of life
than sunshine brilliance
and tulip-colored eyes

When does a day end?
a smoothie of hours
blended with
isolation
makes a perfect
end
(or beginning)