The morning dawn
Begins to light a darkened sky,
Painting colors onto the black.
Like a how printing press makes stories,
The sky paints it’s morning glories.
A child watches this transformation
As it whisks away his trepidation.
A warm sunny light
Shines through these
Once gnarled trees,
And the child finds it
A fine replacement
To the icy blue moonlight
That pervaded the night.
Standing up after a long night,
The boy gingerly steps off the roof
And through his ajar window.
Within seconds of touching his bed,
He’s entrapped, from toe to head.
Slumber takes its firm hold
As punishment for the stunt he pulled.
If I had a window that could let me get to my roof, I’d be up there a lot. I think we’ve all had a fear of the dark’s unknowns.
I’ve never been great at narrative writing, but I thought I’d try my hand at it once more.
