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Poetry

Every Morning Comes

by: James Quinton


the slowly shifting dawn
enslaves us who wake

burned by the intimidating
early sting of the sun
eyes crack, tear
and helplessly part
limbs that ache
and feel like lead weights
painfully start to move

upon waking
a half remembered dream
slips away
a blurred struggle begins
fighting to put the lingering
pieces back together

in the warm womb of the duvet
a protective and sheltered place
a place where no harm will come
a steady stream of abrasive
contemplation's
enters the stirring
consciousness
realising its the start of another day


. .