Morning Sings

Morning’s breath leaks into the room. Its fingers clawing at the windows, longing to burst its way in. Light bleeds through cotton trimming, carrying with it a song of hope.

Morning sings

Eyes are fused by nights by-gone-plot. My heart beats. A steady drum. Calling me to wake, to the new day that waits. For a moment, I remember true love’s dream; the tender embrace, the journey of grace. The hands that were clasped as we laughed, and we cried. I doubt you’d have guessed it. I knew the memories would fade. That dawns song would be sung, and the axe would be laid. It’s voice ever crying, our dream ever dying, I clung to your hand while I watched your face fade.

Morning sings, I shut out her voice.

I lift up my head. The night’s stale breath, and sleeps powdered kiss, bury me beneath the winter fleece, like a fragile china doll wrapped in papyrus sheets. Day calls for me to step out in love, but love ever broken I’m a paralytic, a man unspoken. Shutting my eyes I’m desperately searching, the world seems so empty without my heart burning. Hope they say, I’d hoped that I’d found you. Love they say, but I’ve none left to give you.

Morning sings, I shut out her voice.

Someone is singing, the Tui in answer. Someone is suffering, longing for grace, while the world keeps on tumbling through infinite space. A man lifts his hammer, as mice gnaw his bread. An army of ants are making their trenches, while parliament sits in its prosperous benches. Books are forgotten, as new ones are written. The character’s arc longs for completion, when really the truth is a path of depletion. 

Morning sings, I shut out her voice.

I pick up my heart, my raggedy mess. Got some number eight wire, and a stone there instead. No, God forbid I should make this exchange! For the heart that was broken must be remade. The story can’t end, I lumber from bed. Drawing the curtains, to be greeted instead, not by ravenous wolves or some lonely expanse, but by sunshine and blossoms, and Kereru’s chest. Tear out the rocks, take my raggedy mess, and open my eyes to the hope I possess.

Morning sings, I bask in her voice.

– Iain Sutherland (The Ink Jester)


5 thoughts on “Morning Sings

  1. Love it!! Love it!! Love it!! Love it!! Love it!! Love it!! Love it!! Love it!! Love it!! Love it!! Love it!! Love it!! Love it!! Love it!! Love it!! Love it!! Love it!! Love it!! Love it!! Love it!! Love it!! Love it!! Love it!! Love it!! Love it!! Love it!! Love it!! Love it!! Love it!! Love it!! Love it!! Love it!!

    Dude!! Seriously, These few words awaken my heart and beg me to not let my dreams depart!!

    😀 Papa Bless you and keep your writing fingers strong!!

    • Josiah!! Wow, I’m glad this resonated somewhat with you 🙂 Thank you for encouraging my fingers, I’ve been a bit distracted on that front for quite some time.

      Look forward to more poems, and stories I’ll certainly be writing more!!

  2. This poem was beautiful. I loved your stylistic choices, though I might have like to see the large paragraphs in stanzas, though still separated from the single liners.

    It seems to say that, when we are down, sometimes the hardest thing to do isn’t to face the “ravenous wolves”, but to face the sunshine and people that are happy.

    • I think it’s mean to be in stanzas, but for some reason I wrote it like this. I should do a remix, and re-format it. I agree.

      There’s a number of dimensions here. This probably one of my more biographical pieces, about a break up I went through, and the depression that followed. Your deduction is part of it too.

      Thanks for commenting again James, I can’t tell you how supported I feel as I take my first serious steps into the writing world. Thank you deeply.

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