The sun.
Little rays of morning
Bombard my closed lids,
Turning their insides a mucky saffron.

The mute of the morning
Screams its silence into my ears,
Bothering me to consciousness.

I feel warm,
But robbed,
Sleep more precious than this arrogant new morning,
Ushering me from my musings,
Ripping the dreams so easily
The memory frays.

I lay still,
Questioning the possibility
Of sleep returning to me once again.

I push deeper into my mattress.
No, sleep has gone.

The promise of food and drink
To quell my cotton-mouth coaxes me to shift,
Though I do not give.

Absent of want
I burrow deep into the embrace of my blankets,
Ensnared once again by the mourning
Of my slumbering thoughts

With heavy heart
I dig my way back out again,
A single, arched foot
Hesitantly touching the cold reality of
The familiar wood flooring.

Pinning my closet with a disgusted look
I dawdle before leaving my sanctuary,
Creeping silent as death through the thin quiet
Of the infantine day.

I catch the sharp and heavy scent of cut grass,
And hear a mower growl and snarl somewhere
As it shears down the uneven strokes of green.

A mourning dove coos coyly,
And the sun sneers down at me from the skylight,
It puffy white cronies of cumulous clouds
Scattered about it defensively through the cheerful blue
Of the sky.

A kite peels through the air,
Another mockery,
And the faint calls of an early- morning soft-ball game
Float teasingly on the breeze.

Defeated, I schlep to the kitchen,
The scent of coffee my only white flag to wave.
Today you have won, oh great white-gold mass,
Dominator of the skies,
But there is always a tomorrow,
Oh large and mighty tormentor,
And there is always night.