Cody McInnis

7:00 AM

Be thine own palace, or the world’s thy jail.
— John Donne

Her furled moaning never rests,
For a habitual fire trembles to:

Then spake the voices at 7:00AM
chiming bright like a hateful knell;
because all other times I hath resolved
too fully of the flesh; round it
now a savage ghost, batters tired lids —
so that eyes may never properly close,
and the all-surrounding
urban dawn, may devastate repose;

the edges of a blushing shore, engorge
to meet, an antiquated intrepidity —
with visions coaxing an elated
trill, atop concave tapering;
lucid the rifting speckled light
with all its cold descriptive solicitude,
provokes love’s haggard osculation,
bound, from space & time, and over-exude.

Let us never pause or make an end,
it is dreary to end this clever play;
seek always beyond the furled heart,
beneath the undulating force of the waves,
it is not too late for a heated expression,
abscond the natural importune dream;
regress from the onward journey,
hold close the ecstasy of the desirable terrene.

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