The weightless morning,
The anthropoid hour.
The scattered bodies,
Lie about the home.
Tethered by untouched ideology,
Limited by the idea that it, is them.
From a window,
Encircled by black.
A bird flies,
From a firm treeline.
Tearing the world,
Into manageable pieces.
From the bed,
The anthropoid stirs.
Not quite an idea,
But a drifting bird.