April 2, 2008
The shrill waves of a French horn thrust me out of my gentle sleep,
Signaling me to start my day once again.
My hands flow through chores without question or concern,
As if they have a mind of their own.
Next, my feet drag my wilting body outside,
While my eyes open up to the sunlight,
My ears grasp the sound of awakening birds,
My nose captures sweet pine and morning dew.
But I,
I just make it to tomorrow.

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