Shuddering the frosty manacles
of slumber, depths untold
fleet from my meditations
and I am beholden by the prospect
of gilded rays, sunlight breaking
across the parapets and treelines,
with shimmering green telling fables
of flightly residents to thought,
and I breathe

The cool crisp air of winters divide,
filling my bronze lungs, more primitive
than fire or wine; it fulfills my wanton
whimsy for enlightenment, and so I,
with draconian sole, walk the scattered entirety
of a new world borne on firefly wings,
and I dream

This is the strangest wakefulness I've yet known