When morning’s murk remains for far too long,
the sun becomes a lighter shade of gloam;
When earth can’t hear the moonlight’s languid song
through static plumes of dampening misty foam;
When sleepy, fog-draped hills begin to blur
their edges in amorphous mounds of grey,
then like, when without glass, your eyes obscure
each color, shape, and life within the day.
A body cannot wake, nor truly rest
if all the daylight hours are but a shift
in some unending grey-scale twilight jest,
which dulls all borders, floats your world adrift.
So catch your cast-off timber into flame
or risk each hour’s obliterating same.