The morning offered nothing but chilled spines and gloomy eyelids begging to be shut once more.

With the birth of a new day comes a revived beginning,

I rarely take the chance to seize it.

As the dust of a new dawn settles, dense wood from the weathered floor whimpers to hold the weight of the drowsy march of my feet.

An exhumed trunk of a twisted tree reposed outside a nearby window.

Between the panes of glossy, glazed glass, a Trespasser appeared before me.

Gazing into his strangely familiar eyes, his glance back through mine.

I stood frozen and still like a reflection, I began to analyze the treacherous Trespasser.

Only one word could wander to my woefully weary mind: Melancholy

So dreadfully melancholy.

Hands worn from centuries of mindless toil and labor,

Grubby and greedy like an elderly child begging for food.

The oddly intimate state of his face refutes his grievously jaded eyes.

My threatening Trespasser suddenly appears amicable. 

An exhumed trunk of a twisted tree reposed outside a nearby window,

Between our exhausted, feeble eyes, the Trespasser extends a hand.

I reach out,

and feel the cool, calming glass of my vacant home.