Daughter to the Spinning Pulsar

That shapely hourglass, defined by luscious curves, voluptuous twists and turns from the man made measurement where definitions of seconds pour serenely, seemingly, to the bottom of our evaluation of ourselves within God's gravity,
The tiring end of the day is far more serious than a hopeful dawn when zygote eyes take in the morning light – with limitless horizon open beneath the presiding morning dreams
Dictionary visions spelled in even the best calligraphy do not imply fiction (for there is immense doubt that any of Man’s records are actually even real) Soldier dreams aligned in plastic Stratego discipline, they wait for the command to march on blood-soaked mural realities:
The madmen of the mint, the hollow ghouls of classrooms, that matronly death stench from the hospital libraries - Powerpoint and printing press nightmares persist only as children nagging for attention wiping sleeves across the black and white of their festering noses.

Dawn is sacred! a riveting cacophony of orchestral motley tossing recipes of laundry spinning dizzily in a dryer of eventual chores.
Morning breaks all the dishes in the kitchen to the howl of wildlife screaming through the window, "WHAT'S FOR BREAKFAST???!!!"
As the sweat might spill from the brow to the griddle with antagonizing historical tradition and frenzied hysteria begging at the top of its lungs… still, asking politely to those high and low for an answer.
Each day, each morning, a helix screams the question from the staple gun nooks and broken bottled crannies of a soft landing. Recesses of embedded cushioned boundaries sleeping and dreaming, rubbing eyes to a new chance for clarity.
Senseless understanding is no understanding at all - cosmic answers won't be answered merely through repetition!
Seek a cumulus cherub curiosity, the most menacing to complacent feelings, where quenching one’s self on expression shall revolt against the blind, fatigued monster of tolerance.

Today is a new day, like its surrounding brethren, and like all its clones past and present - each day with its own subtle genetic defects - a beautiful misunderstanding between God and Man almost as beautiful as his children.
The mathematical sum of all days' work is miniscule next to the immeasurable hope cast from a single sip from the first drops of sunlight which spread thickly across your glistening, prism brow.
Across the crimson nectarines... to a blues for Nina growing old and wearing purple like the pristine grandmas
Bonnet doting lullabies on all the necessary tenderness the sun and stars cast on us, avenging the saddening sobriety of neglected youth.
Child, feel the crisp and eternal solar winds bringing the morning to an impassioned hopeful fusion, spreading a beacon which insists each morning is a brand new chance for shattering the hourglass and singing the perfect verse.