When the first light spills across the horizon,
the sky ignites in streaks of rose and gold,
clouds burn with molten edges, trembling awake,
while shadows retreat, whispering their last secrets,
softened by the sweetness of morning air I cannot name.
The sky blushes with wonder,
as night surrenders to the blaze of day.
Shadows stretch long across my skin, reluctant to fade,
clinging like old wounds that refuse to close,
reminding me of all I have endured.
The sun does not ask me to be whole,
it only rises, again and again,
marching onward with the endless drum of time,
reminding me that no matter how much breaks,
the cycle continues, the dawn always returns,
promising that even in ruin,
there can still be warmth.
I watch its climb with weary eyes,
weighed down by the sameness of another day,
feeling the ache of ghosts gnaw at my trust,
while any awe I once held flickers dim,
a child’s wonder soured by the certainty that nothing truly changes.
Upon the rise of the sun,
I remember:
I am broken, yet I breathe.
I am haunted, yet I wonder.
And somewhere in between,
a trace of innocence glimmers,
a sweetness that lingers in the morning air,
softly reminding me that even in shadow,
the day begins with hope.