Shades At Your Back

I wake playing my part, great or small.

I wake obsessed with the drop-off, 

marred by the merchant of ecstasy,

still only slightly sweaty.

The prophet I had slipped into being

now wanders lost in the dark 

compartmental chambers

of the skull hospital.

My senses can really take a beating.

I can smell my synapses sizzling

and grin like it's bacon in the morning.

The weight of my worries

has bottomed out: only trimming

our defeats off like frilly furls

will turn the room back around.

We greet the sun that rises

off the hot breath of regret,

and hides behind shields

of crystalline vapor

as it slowly creeps

toward the sinking line.

Disarming alarm of my body,

I think I am going to lay you to rest.
Your potential has been portioned
and tucked away behind shades.
Your reign has been cut too late.