Morning/New Poem (Rough First Draft)

Morning

I’m awake early,

pushed upwards

from a horrible dream

– a hot blast of death.

 

I need to cool my veins,

the thin skin on my chest

and neck.

 

I leave the cabin barefoot,

the ground is white wax.

 

I move carefully, quietly  

down the hill to the fjord,

heels torn from my forest

walk the day before.

 

I kept going through hours,

up past the tree line,

trying to climb the scaffold

of my spirit.

 

Light bleeds from the North

and I listen to the night’s

farewell whispers.

 

I divide my thought,

shrug off ashen years

when my voice didn’t reach

my mouth. 

 

Today I will follow

brave impulses,

desires pummelling

fists against

my breast bone.

 

It’s morning.

I’m awake early.

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