Cold, cold floors press
against the soles of my feet,
as I roll out of bed
still affined to my sleep.
While my eyes remain low
and quite dauntingly heavy,
my hands moving slow
part them ever so stiffly.
Then, before me a speech,
spoken only in vision,
brings tears to mine eyes
by its glorious image.
Alive yet again,
the sight gives me relief,
for the glorious sun
shan't deliver disbelief.
Oct 21, 2011
Oct 21, 2011 at 2:58 PM UTC
Cold, cold floors press
against the soles of my feet,
as I roll out of bed
still affined to my sleep.
While my eyes remain low
and quite dauntingly heavy,
my hands moving slow
part them ever so stiffly.
Then, before me a speech,
spoken only in vision,
brings tears to mine eyes
by its glorious image.
Alive yet again,
the sight gives me relief,
for the glorious sun
shan't deliver disbelief.
My adopted metaphor is "deliver disbelief."
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