Morning Light

The morning sighs with hollow burdens, as its weary eyes look on towards the tall tall buildings. At the people, the living and the tired. Morning walks and pities the tired, morning walks and embraces the living; morning is grand. As flecks of sawdust catch on the wind, they are carried through morning light into the people’s homes. They fall upon eyelids, burning brightly on the sleeping ones, and pile up like dust on empty beds. Dusk filters through all the cracks, and the caves, reaching the darkest areas—these are the quiet corners that no one dares to see. These are where the sad, the hopeless and the miserable lie. The albatross of their isolation, bathed in the sunlight, becomes clearer; becomes so bright until one of them must seize the noose, must stand upon the chair, must shut out the light.