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Morning
November 5, 2018
I’m not as awake as the birds
But I sing nonetheless
Lest I fall asleep again
I’m mocked by freezing air
Daring me to return to my warm bed
I taunt fate as I rest my eyes
Nothing’s heavier than my eyelids
Except maybe the bags underneath
And the burdens tucked securely in my arms
I curse the sun for sleeping
While I rely on dawn’s funereal light
And frosty chill
© Amanda T., Scituate, MA
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