The Mourning Lies

The morning lies cold
In the thin embrace
Of it's existent folds;
Faced with the stark
Realisation of its being,
Its becoming and the
Sheer newness of it all.
The morning lies cruel
In the tight hold of its
Own prescient history;
Brought to heel by its
Memory, precedent and
The violent visitation
Of what has previously been.
The morning is genesis
Of the day, the start of
Something; but morning
Also comes after the
Night before, it is informed
By every tragedy, every
Exaltation...the experience
Of phenomena, imperfectly
Recalled. Morning is Monday,
Is The First, is
Acknowledging of something
Before the start, mourning
Of something lost; forever
Unknowable, however known.

Written by Mr Woods on 02/01/19
© 2019 Anthony Woods

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