Standing in cold air
Dusty, wet and somehow alive
Changes the taste of a personal universe
Flowers die before they've grown
And with it the chance

I didn't wash my hands
My hands, with old, broken fingers
I don't trust them anymore
But, like my eyes
They are in the light of a dawn

Fresh breaks bring hope
Hope of healing and renewal
Old breaks only ache in the cold
Dull, faded echoes of pain
Foreshadowing another dawn

And another day...