Morning

A wound to the heart is a good wake-up call—

It might be a small needle-prick

slipping between your ribs during a cold meeting on a cold morning,

injecting a toxin that you incubate all day, and turn at night to pain.

It might be a glacial, crushing blow; an ax

that breaks your chest into a million pieces and leaves you bleeding in the dark.

Your ego is a smoldering wreck, prancing panicky circles like a flamingo doused in gasoline; dragging you along with it—

But you can hear the faithful rooster crowing now, and if you listen, his brittle shout will cut away the night—slice the tangled stirrup from your foot, and let you fall away from selfish thoughts—

There; the sun is rising.

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