Eyes open to darkness emitted,
Through crevasses formed between curtains.
The mighty star,
Playing second fiddle,
To unforgiving clouds.

A night worth of rest,
Not enough,
For a body consumed by weakness,
Wakes to a bleak dark morning.

Throat dry but all else wet
And suddenly a dose of regret.
The body must persevere through a day,
Where one perspires,
Even as the temperature drops.

Perhaps meaning found in labor,
Will infuse spirit,
In place of vigor.

But Alas! No such luck,
Labour just a meal ticket.
Not a provider of zeal.

But yet in sickness or worse,
Thou, gets up to bleak mornings,
Knowing it might be a bad day,
But, it’s not a bad life.

Picture by Valentin Muller (Unsplash)


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