Morning
steals into your room
and watches you
while you sleep.
It knows
while you breathe
that soon it will end your sojourn
into dream.
It knows and grins
that when the moment arrives
your first thought
will be
“no”.
Too bright
too dark
too cold
too hot
stiffness and soreness
or the burning of the brain
to return to that different cycle.
The ender of parties
the bringer of civilized worlds
first pain of the day
dash of sharp reality
on fantasy's soft shoulder.
Ugly, harsh, brutal beginning
like birth
it is met with screaming.
Time of sickness,
of hangovers,
of the departure
of fae and owl.
Snapping of night
into pieces
strung along the wire
of orbit.
Death of moon,
fading of stars,
moment when the dread
of what may come first hits
when memories are laid bare
without perspective.
Morning is the other kind of truth
in the same bladed lie.
154
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