Mourning

This morning happened centuries ago
and there are still traces of Crest on my tongue.
My irises are like coffee filters
straining the paradoxical dream sequences
created by my starved psyche.

Driven by curiosity of the looming day,
steadfast because of unadulterated will.
I rise and take on the day
one daydream at a time,
with a little help from a promised tomorrow.

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