In the morning when we wake up there is
a moment
when we don't know who we are but feel
no panic
a perfect living in the midst of
imperfection
How sweet the whole world is without
thought
before we add our little fears and
doubts
and open our eyes wider than we can
understand
All day long then a cloak of despair
enrobes
the light of the day is diffuse and
limited
a slow hand encloses the mind with
thoughts
If
we didn't have such memory or the ability to conceive
brilliant children of self treachery
we would run out into the fog and
dissipate
Like we will later on when the
afternoon turns
bright with age and sags against
evening
and the bed returns to sleep in the
shape of us
Innocent in the darkness of our true
being
we slip out of our self clothing into
the all
empty of the marks that designate us
One different heart-beater better than
any other
marching after the idles of a single
searching mind
all day alone in a dream of self
improvement
Lost again the moment we close our eyes
for good
our dream of waking up better than we
were
sweetly eases away into our most
perfect return
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