Morning

The wings over her eyes,
flap erratically,
as crumpled sleep,
makes its final flight.

Her eyes quietly blossom,
tiny rivulets of red,
crawling towards an island,
muslin black in a white sea.

She rolls over,
in cleansed hate,
and a pail full of black,
tumbles over the soggy pillow.

Hands outstretched,
in a lazy eternity,
she hopes to build a cave,
around her growing flame.

She then peeps out of,
a swirling sea of warmth,
cheeks dipped in blush,
a storm brewing on her lips.