When a Morning Begins


Never gone such a night
That would forgive the morning rays their ill-timed birthing
That my pain be unfolded
And dreams ripped asunder
A thin sheet of spring ice, melted evermore by the rising sun

But that the plow may come and build me walls of snow
To soon become the next winter flakes
Falling in sleeping gutters
And on the dead future
That died by the hands of uncertainty and despair

Quickly the cemeteries fill
Covering land,
Squeezing the houses over cliffs and into swollen seas,
And reminding the living that soon comes death
But how to tell Death to wait a moment longer?
I am not done with the night.

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