Melancholy Sun

I wrote this one morning when I really did not want to get up.

I stumble awkwardly
out of my silent repose,
finding an uneasy home
amongst thorns and briars
of flesh and concrete.
The scarlet fingers of Dawn
dangle about-
stiff and rigid, limp and malleable,
all in the same instance,
slithering here or there
with reptilian grace,
falling about the room
like drunken dancers-
ballerinas even-
having the poise of a sloth.
As the light finds my face,
covering my pale skin
in the golden hues of morning,
I rise to meet the day-
halfway, at least.

The End

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