Night is best for thinking about beginnings—
not morning, like they’ll try and tell you.
I’m braver with my notions of what could be
with sleep so close to rescue me
when old Fear gets his claws around too tight.
I’ll need a runway afforded only in dreams
long enough to let the guts of the thing shake out
so I can see what it’s all for.
By the time the sun hits, I’m ready.
The amnesia of sleep is a convenient armor
that greets me fresh each day.
The hard part is done, I say.
Morning is just the other side of the door.