Morning poem

Every forsaken days of the week,
Every unfortunate month of the year,
I would arose from my own rest, look up to the wall,
And i would sum the seconds, minutes and hours
To my rise or prime to my fall.
Every dawn when i look at the pale sun,
I would see the force and anger in his face
Blurring the sight of me and who stares,
And fading the spirit and verge of my persistence.
But dawn after dawn, here i am; still awake,
Here i am scribbling my thoughts on a white plain,
Here i am waiting for the moon to share with me
My own vain.


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