MELANCHOLY SUN

I stumble awkwardly

out of my silent repose,

finding an uneasy home

amongst thorns and briars

of flesh and concrete.

The scarlet fingers of Dawn

dangle about-

stiff and rigid, limp and malleable,

all in the same instance,

slithering here or there

with reptilian grace,

falling about the room

like drunken dancers-

ballerinas even-

having the poise of a sloth.

As the light finds my face,

covering my pale skin

in the golden hues of morning,

I rise to meet the day-

halfway, at least.