The sunrise, for all its show, is for some a phenomenon, beautiful and glorious. For some, it’s a vicious and taunting monster, interloping on our happy sleep. I’ve seen the star from both sides now, from help and hurt. I’m usually not a morning person. I need help to make the most of my time in the earlier hours.
Animus in Prelude c. April 2011
Coffeeblood castings surface
Earthworms rip through trenches
Tangleweeds tug at my limbs
Twisting ferns rake through my hair
As spikes of foxglove ready a violet strangle
The sun itself is fixing to swallow me up
Its incisors cutting through the sweet dream sky
Grass wet with venom spit
The vapors rise to sting my eyes
Red and yellow seeps through thin skin
Sweat, the traitor, dares to join with soil
Morning is the enemy.
Circadian Arrythmia c. April 2008
I smell air that blows through my open window
Mornings bring shadows and silhouettes
trees and their inhabitants
lovely until I hear the birds
their dissonant laughter
mocking my lazy mistake
I’m no poet, but I need God right now c. November 2007
but You awaken me gently,
finger combing my hair
with sunlight through the slats,
whispering how You
will take my pain away.
But I still feel it.
But I still trust You.
But I still need rest.
Sing over me, please,
with kind morning lullabies.
It’s a little too early
to face the day.