to remain a little longer under that blanket
in the space heated with my own body heat
i preferred but struggling against, in the same
time, idleness to live the ideal of an early riser
i win the battle but with an empty trophy
i wake but to empty trash for collection
to shorten a word to fit into an empty page
to re-naming empty, un-rhyming phrase as poem
do i complain, then, to heaven the unfairness
picking crumbs fallen from the table when
the partying is over and the music is stopped
as i still secretly hope the distant water to be real
for too many mirages i have witnessed
after driving many miles through the land
of opportunity, a journey I began leaving
my mother land to book my six foot space
henry victor 22.10.2012
