Mornings are for mourners,
To mourn the night before.
Morning is Night’s final throes of desperation.
And in her place…
nothing but the cooling corpse of yesterday.
You open your eyes , sit on the bed (still unsure of where, how and why you’re here) thinking what to do with the sprawling remains extended till .
You await for the new day
the new day
to come and rescue you from this queasy unsureness that is morning.
You’ll inhabit this no man’s land till the afternoon.
Morning the death shrine of last night.
All promises , all possibilities
growing in the hopeful shades of dark,
Fizzled to nothingness in the raw light of the new day…
Crumpled little ashen mounds of wanting ,
burnt by the ugliness of time.
And a dense cloud of unhappiness clings to everything and everyone as if t’was the Sun royal mantle.
.Yellow and bloated;
Smilingly pontificating over the debris of the new day.