The Scars Of Morn

The sun is a crucifix
of petrified reveries
when its radiance regurgitates
assassins from melancholy’s crypt,
slicing away at old wounds.

In the disquieting stillness
they cut the vocal chords,
muted by repressed passions,
fear’s henchmen holding a razor
to the will.

A gaze into the illumination
exposes the nakedness
from mutated vanity.

Looking glass quintessence
reveals its mask,
heart is consumed in the view
upon the calming veracity
no longer a parrot of borrowed incantations,
sagacious mime awaken
singing with sight instead of mouth.