shot glass
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Jennifer Boyd

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Morning Flame

The silk burns to wear. I'm caught in media res, I wake silent and alone.
Asahi says, I'm not mornings and embers - who chases the hyena in leather? She doesn't await a rise of tangerine, only its faintest spark belittles her.
Temples bellow in the rebirth of slumber, nail-biters chew away the craters, frying the offerings they conjure.
Dawn. Whispering sun brushed over by mist. There's a lull in the sputtering of talons;
Immortality arises to open the blinds–