The pill

The pill wakes you to orange sleep
In  fetal positions of a sleep-dance.
Here you quickly freeze your eyes 
That  turn glacial waiting for a sun
To fashion their river to a down sea.

Grief turns icicles on the eyelashes
When  phone comes near the stairs.
They really scintillate to a rising sun
After a night of  stars  moves away
From  pointing to clenched fingers.
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