Morning rinses,
bleak as night’s wishes.
Mirror stares, a returning glance,
empty and a portrayal of trance.
Running wet hands through a face
which then becomes faces out of place.
Fabrication of dried skin, weakened,
by morning rinses, a beg to look thin.

It is the one thing that keeps the mind
distracted by  the tangled brain saying nevermind.
Skin glistening, memories, enchanting like they’re
misery struggling to know, just where?
Where do these ideas come from?
Surely, nothing exists in a mind so dumb.
Possessed by the walls,
struggling to hear the morning bird calls;

Morning rinses.
Morning rinses,
of the face so purely lacking anything,
or is it just telling you something?
The worlds of regret are finally drowning,
but you are not the one who is allowing.
No, you are just the observer,
and this morning will last forever.