Poem: Rising Before Dawn – 17/07/20

The condensation on the window glistens
as though it begs for my finger
to trail through it,
to create snail trails minus sticky bubbles,
to drag paths only for me to view.
Instead, I poke, poke, poke,
through the fly screen,
blobbed dots like painterly expressions,
and I giggle once, twice, to myself,
how amused I can be,
so easily.
I wait for Dawn to arrive,
for morning to gently arise,
to show her colours,
maybe pink, maybe orange,
maybe blue,
what is waiting for me?
My eyes are widened,
amazed by a future view.
But for now, I’ll sit,
watching the darkness,
Is this it?
Is this all it’s come down to,
an inability to dream?
Because suddenly, I can no longer
imagine a world rich with colour,
my ability’s been strangely drained from me,
an unhealthy pallor,
all monochrome,
where is this artist’s colour wheel now?
You ask me my favourite shade.
I no longer know the answer.
Bleak is what this situation has become,
bleak, depressive, and dire,
and I do not believe this sudden sadness
can be undone,
but I will fight,
fight to view Dawn’s rising, raging fire.

Perhaps she can cure me
of my hasty melancholy,
a healing power,
upon her very hour,
this monochromatic viewpoint may
waltz aside, after all, 
come and go, 
maybe I needn't feel any rising panic,
I secretly wonder if I can heal myself all on my own.

© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Lukáš Jančička from Pixabay

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