Last night's prayers still seep through venetian blinds, sealed with an Amen, caught in the dust of a window's cage; could I offer matins before noon, with mangled masking tape and half-read books of dead heros before light spills upon my chest in shades of viridian? Lying supine to suspended supplications, I long to construct altars, burn plastic offerings in this digital sepulchre, where morning walks across skin and linen -- a linear incision.
Reason for writing:
Last summer, I woke up to find light spilling through
the window on my body and I felt like I was being
examined by something beyond the window; then I examined
my own beliefs, my mortality.
Birth sign: Not entered
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