Each Morning

Each morning the sky rips itself wide & i am awed. the way sunrise is painted so brilliantly & beautifully without any doubt or hesitation. the moments sweep in & claim my eyes, my soul. what of all this cold? yet you shine & hover & glow. all those late sunrises urging themselves earlier & earlier until the question is, why leave at all? the long aching winter nights when daytime is a shadow, a dawn, & a dusk have fled full away, screaming into the light. now, darkness becomes a myth, lingering on the edge of the light. this exquisite battle upon the blood-streaked sky, i cannot say i have prayed for peace.

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