a morning time

by Amanda Moon

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the boy is made of satin sheets
and when he falls asleep
in the arms of ambience, my name is on his lips
my hands are on his hips
but he is still incomplete.

that he should rise in the light of our nearest star
is better by far
that i should draw on him in dust
and turn him blue by the radiant gold of lust
i say i think i feel i must.

and so it streams with pastel noise
it screams like boys
the morning is a silver river
which overflows and overjoys

and he is a constant wave
the way he flounders up to shave
walking like he's nude
and unabashedly more proud than prude
as he came to cradle, so shall he meet his grave.

and i, of no importance yet
will use my life as i see fit
the early day marks out my time and space
i found my way to this place
and will take all i can get.

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