I’m writing you a letter under the morning star
an expert chaining of words to unfold pages you wouldn’t dare touch otherwise,
signs and points and funny little curved bars
on the last breath of a tall green murdered sequoia tree,
in my own words as you can see,
“Good fuckin’ morning, little plush sweet baby!”

Before sunrise, time is all that still remains for there’s no ending to its fall
dreams are gone, the clay is cold, pick-pockets won’t find things to mold,
and I am gone, far away, overseas, hunting trolls…

Wake up prisoner of sight,
the day was brought to you by a brother of the cheating sun,
load your guns with courage and take a solid stand
for morning always rolls upon both the faithful and the sin
and one shall rise and one shall part
when fire hits the Queen of Hearts..

Paper planes are telling stories in the dawn of March Hare’s spring,
fierce claw paintings drawn by starlight shiver
they’re like whispers of a spark soon a tribute to the dark,
and I’m writing you a letter starting with the eye
words and thoughts and feelings with commas at the end,
a book with glitter starving hands.