An Elegy

I am not a morning person.

Not in reluctance of a new horizon,

But in defeat

For in the waking world, I find

again, I've lost

Surrendered a third of my time to unwholesome unconsciousness.



I'm a human.

Unique--

like everyone else.

In that, I'm ashamed of this poem.

An injustice.

A loss.

That little white lies that grabs and twists.

For no person can say they know themselves whist telling the

truth.



I'm a singer

but I'll never sing a eulogy,

for Death might make songs of us all,

given the chance.

He'd stow us in the hidey-holes of hearts,

locked away so that one might not spill--

might not recall what's lost

despite all that was gained.

It doesn't do to do Death's work

while we're still of the living.



I am awake.

A person.

A bright red elegy.

I will sing of life the day I die,

for even in all that's been lost

I have gained.