Morning's Doom

February 28, 2008
Donning her silver mantle, she skips outside,
Gulps in a mouthful of the fragrant morning breeze,
Walks past a gnarled, withered old tree,
Beside the winding river that she tells her friends,
Belongs to her, is her birthday present,
Treading softly on the petal strewn pathway,
She walks underneath an arch of overhanging orchids,
A nightingale comes and sits on her outstretched hand,
And sings to her a lovely tune of heartrending melody,
Narrating to her, tales of distant times and lands...
At that moment the scene shifts and she is lost,
And all I can see is unending darkness, death and despair,
I see myself stranded in an abyss shorn of hope or light,
Cold, deathly white spectres hover around me,
Clutch at me for warmth and feeling of life,
Gruesome in their countenance; I shrink away,
And seek for light and the sweet morning breeze,
That I had just seen her breathe,
Look around for fluttering of the nightingale's wings,
The orchid's leaves, the gnarled old tree,
And again amidst the darkness, my eyes seek her,
And I realize that I'm little better than the wraiths,
Clinging to her for my hope and happiness...
The scene shifts and I see her again,
Chattering happily away to the nightingale,
But the beauty of the morning has somehow faded,
And it is a soberer fragrance that illuminates my morning…

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