The Irony of My Schedule

The Son comes in when the sun comes out. I love it.

Born

My body lays on my bed with a sea of blankets and ships of pillows.
My head facing up to the ceiling patched with glow-in-the-dark stars, green like greed.
My arms near my chest as if they were confined by shackles.
My legs bent, my knees to my stomach.
My body in fetus position.
I become me coming out of my mother's womb.

Born crying to a new world,
my eyes start to open
to the ER blinding lights.

I sleep in this darkness
so
I can wake again to the light
and be born again.