by Sean Portland

Created on: October 13, 2009   Last Updated: December 24, 2010

A body that's less alive, I prise
from my comfortable, quilted trench
into a morning that is simply another fragment
of an ever-darkening night

And this is the only simplicity I know;
That daily, I live to die a little more
And motive is a fond and hollow concept
For this actors only show

I see the iridescence of our earth
Moving, swelling, blending, lighting it up
But somewhere between the iris and the heart
Is a dimming-filtered dearth

The fragments get longer and thinner
And my lenses get shorter and thicker
I wonder; will death be the true morning?
Or a second night for the sinner

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