Alex Brawn Windrealm
Morning Maker
My window blinds are just that.
They, bruised by the fire that
I hate—But depend on presently.
It checks on me regularly,
But smothers me in my shelter—
Seeping through those horizons.
And my window cracks are cluttered with light;
My room is illuminated like a canvas.
I wake to and from it every morning.
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