MORPHEUS, HEAR MY CRY

Sleep ends as quickly as dreams do.
I wake feeling as if my powers—such
as they be—have been stolen
in the night;
my feet of clay grown back, anchoring
the end of weary legs again.
Should I open my mouth,
I’ll be speaking in tongues,
wild at the grief that burns my lips.
I am mourning the beginnings
of peace through rest,
before Sol salutes the day.

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