Sundried morning.

Sundried morning.

A dry sun

Fingers the grey slate floor

Smoking through the curtain

A silvery thread

A snails progress

Marked against cold stone.

The linger of sleep

Creating an illusion

Of lucidity

As morning breaks

With unforgiving brutality.

There is no hiding place

Beneath its steely gaze

The plains of Africa

The steppes of Russia

The canyons of Mars

Are laid bare

Green fields are wastelands.

Skyscrapers

Are matchboxes filled

With dead heads

Skeletal trees are scraped dry.

Every death is accounted for

Scorpions take few prisoners

The wait for news of empathy

Is wasted

It has long since gone from here

The coffee cups as cracked

As the baked earth.

Nothing comes together

With any clarity

Until the second cup

Snaps into focus

And a facial scrub

Brings with it the truth

Of self-deception.