There is a melancholy that comes with early mornings.
The uncertainty is far from dulcet,
It flutters on like an endless drone.
The air lingers with the lassitude
Of its blithe former self.
I stare into the wilderness,
And wonder when my blank daydream will end.
My fingers curl from some forgotten
I soak in the present decrepitude
Till I can languish in pity no more.
I can only wilt into the wilderness
And wonder when this daydream will end.