eleven

Yawning dawn rips release from nights hold
in misty chill that unfolds from murky gloom;
slow sun spills to trim that velvet of old
whose new grown age calls it to passing doom.

Waking birds herald the day eager to call
in excitement to hasten and fast to break;
stiff wings that bathe in pouring treacle
soars praise aloft that growing Sun’s glory make.

Prowling cats slink cautious on silent feet
caught in act of prowling preying lust;
whipping tails held still ‘ere jaws should meet
snuffing out life as to new life is thrust.

What joy and sorrow to paint this pensive day,
What love and lust will hurry hither to play;
What work from rest raised to deck each stay
of confounding fate and spurring destiny;
What stories will tomorrow’s ink thus say?

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