Morning in December

The morning’s shiny face raw on the floor. The old morning that comes back today with that middle age lines on his face. I despised him many times before, mock on his presence, spit on the filth that I thought was his.

Now that I see his reflection on the floor, should I pull the blanket over me?

I despise him for all the reasons that have been instilled in to my ever gullible mind, that behind him, series of unfortunate events would ensue. When some of them told me that morning is beautiful, they were lying!

Morning is bold, handsome, proud, vibrant. He takes no prisoner, none, never. Well yes, he might let you slip back, tucked in to your slumber, but beware of his retribution, mind his revenge. He is a silent man with the heart of a scorned woman!

He ain’t beautiful… those awe inspiring light you see are nothing but the glimps of fury dispersed by the veil of tranquility.

Too many times I saw him poke the night on the eye. They are not too convenient with eachother those two, no they don’t.

And suddenly this… this human before me smiles and said “hi! nice morning eh?”
I’d prefer heavy rain, any moment now…

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