The Owl’s Coronet

In trying to reset my clock,
Reset diurnal calendar,
Reset from owl to morning lark,
I have amassed a debt of sleep
The equal of a couple weeks.

The fog of mind precipitates
Into a marble coronet
Around my forehead, temples, ears,
Which begs to slip along my tears
That fall for strain, not sentiment.

And yet I keep it propped in place
With rubble of some coffee beans,
To keep schedule by any means,
As if an owl would give two hoots
For early worms or sun salutes.

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