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Morning dark

Grey granite sky peppered

With myriad pinpoint lights

Which vainly battle the laden skies

As they open wide their arms

Cast down their tears

Frozen white with chill-dread

Fear of the Sun

Which one day will come,

Owls turn slowly

Their feathers frost-bitten

Eyes drained by sleep’s demise

Strain still to catch

The lonely orphan shards

Their plaintive calls

Hang lost like gallows corpses

Pleading still

Against their fate,

And alabaster sheets

Reach ever upward to the sky

Jagged out-crops

Slate-silvered stone

Razor blades blunted by

Night’s constant sweeping hand

As it brushes colour

From a landscape scarce,

Black fingers stretch

Weighted heavy with sufferance

Their life green tainted

Yet gripping still with deperation

Knowing that this will end

And night will close

Its interest lost

Pass reins to the Sun

Which one day will come,

But now my feet

Will take me ever on.