Morning

Morning fled in front of me as
Timothy is still summer twilight,
I am by no bright sun of defiance.
Woman talking on the carpet inside of me lives again,
a hermit who just writing words
creates the world. The philosopher words
put the cap on tight,
I miss those words.
I look forward to when the pressure in the bottle words
to cap off a burst, wordless
face book I wake up again seat without a seat.