Linda C. Anger

One explosive morning you wake,
odd and changed,
in a foreign, unpopulated world
where nothing fits – not a single
shirt or pair of shoes,
not your name
or the color of your favorite room.

Even your skin is alien,
and the face in the mirror
vaguely altered.

One blazing morning you wake,
peculiar, mutated.
Familiar objects enlarge or shrink
in shape or shade,
walls and laws are immaterial.

Even the heat of thought
is transformed, exotic,
unnerving.

One fiery morning you wake,
redefined, unchained –
and the chastising internal voices
that kept your life within the lines
are speaking gibberish.

Even the space between
now and then
is blurred, inconsequential.

One searing morning you wake,
discontent -
unplug the central heat
of blind convention,
and re-ignite the embers in your hearth.