I'm a gray hedgehog with spikes inside.
So different from the world outside.
I'm a victim of serious, sad mornings.
You’ve called me perfectly “anonymous”.
My fingers reach, still warm from sleep,
for things the morning shadows keep
an open book, my glasses, water —
searching for things that float and totter.
The mirror waits — its silver gleam
reflects the ghost of who I seem.
My hair uncombed, my eyes turned blue —
insomnia has touched them too.
A thought then flashes through my mind:
this isn’t just a morning kind.
I walk toward the window’s breath,
where air smells with life and death.
It’s thick with rain, with earth and stone,
a scent of distance — damp, alone.
From rooftops, raindrops start to fall,
and whisper tales along the wall.
The northern wind lifts darkened leaves,
but none take flight — the motion grieves.
Too wet to soar, they drag instead,
their whispers soft, like words unsaid.
The light cuts through — a silver thread,
where motes of dust dance, pale and dead.
And in the mirror’s quiet view,
I see the morning — and me, too.
I'm a gray hedgehog with spikes inside.
So different from the world outside.
I'm a victim of serious, sad mornings.
You’ve called me perfectly “anonymous”.
19.10.2025
Oct 27, 2025
Oct 27, 2025 at 9:48 AM UTC
I'm a gray hedgehog with spikes inside.
So different from the world outside.
I'm a victim of serious, sad mornings.
You’ve called me perfectly “anonymous”.
My fingers reach, still warm from sleep,
for things the morning shadows keep
an open book, my glasses, water —
searching for things that float and totter.
The mirror waits — its silver gleam
reflects the ghost of who I seem.
My hair uncombed, my eyes turned blue —
insomnia has touched them too.
A thought then flashes through my mind:
this isn’t just a morning kind.
I walk toward the window’s breath,
where air smells with life and death.
It’s thick with rain, with earth and stone,
a scent of distance — damp, alone.
From rooftops, raindrops start to fall,
and whisper tales along the wall.
The northern wind lifts darkened leaves,
but none take flight — the motion grieves.
Too wet to soar, they drag instead,
their whispers soft, like words unsaid.
The light cuts through — a silver thread,
where motes of dust dance, pale and dead.
And in the mirror’s quiet view,
I see the morning — and me, too.
I'm a gray hedgehog with spikes inside.
So different from the world outside.
I'm a victim of serious, sad mornings.
You’ve called me perfectly “anonymous”.
19.10.2025
