In Morning, mourning seems less
appropriate:
Crusty eyes feel unfit for tears;
Warm, smooth sheets comfort quivering skin;
And early daylight looks more white
than gold.
As a Day moves forward,
And comfort guesses change,
Uncertainty slips through the cracks
in the clouds;
Exchanged words buy only time;
And battles feel lost.
Until Nighttime arrives,
And grasps feverishly at everything it can
smell:
The feeblest fears, the longest lies;
Stars, fallen from the pitch night sky.
And ripples in your cold sheets.