Dawn Poem by James Papastamos

My eyes now on the clock radio, I could
hear the morning time. Five chirps. It was
five o'clock in the blessed morning, that
damned but blissful morning. Shades of
grey added texture to the dying moonlight

Light began to gracefully reveal its colours: a
reddish orange, with just a hint of
majestic mauve. Yes, the sun was rising. It had
purpose, and a purpose in life is a life that has
no meaning at all. Did my life have no meaning?

I was certain about the sun’s uncertain, mostly
unpredictable rise to fame. I was certain of that, for the
sun kept breaking the laws of time, as its hands
toyed with my nerves.

Now fully risen, a brilliant blue, its oceans
swam the seven seas, as its waves seemingly
ran with glee. By now, Clouds, those damned clouds,
meandered about, leaving thoughts of rain to
wander without mercy,
haunting my mind with much curiosity.

Would it rain? Or, would it shine? I asked,
as its flames began, once again, to
burn the morning sky.