Prayer Mornings

These words are for the morning.
Quickly fleeting. Almost gone.
And this line is welcome for the sun.
Welcome, to your own inspired realm.
God, you have done it now.

Burning, manipulating, brightness invested,
inspiring the delicate overlapping folds of rosy reds,
too many arms and white legs off daisies
thrown out in attractive upheaval,
the very green coat of grass wrapped tight
around the shoulders of warm fields,
tenderly torn by grazing jaws,
tongues rolled,
laid over teeth.

God, it is done.
Over. By the end of morning.
Your righteously spiteful muse of a sun,
like a flag, flung soaring oppressively overhead.
Truth. Reality. True enough to descend
and touch my skin.
Already turning red.

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