Dawn

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The morning is about growing, gathering light and strength, the larval stage of day. The rising Sun conjures me a brand new world, enlightening me my way.

Dawn is opening a book about what, yet, I cannot say; a time for dedications, an introductory page. Dawn’s a dream that still seems undressed, but draped in weary foginess, until it dissipates away.

From each movement, momentum springs with quiet, small rememberings of oh yes and how and what might I say. My consciousness, ascending with the graceful light of day.

I remember I’ve immeasureable ass to kick, insidious demons to slay.

But while their weight is still unmeasured, I’ve some time to bask in pleasures, like watching this placid, creeping, chameleonic sky.

 

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