Aubade for Nyx

Rain laden clouds are clearing out  
and there's a bluing in the east  
where morning skies seem like they shout...  
"Begone midnight! You are deceased!".  

And scattered puffs are turning pink  
or that old fashioned rosy gold  
when solar beams are on the brink  
of darkness in its casket, cold,  
where it sleeps on native soil  
to rise once more within hours  
when night again shuffles coil  
with dark matter and strange powers...  
 
in constant rotation, there and here,  
like verse within a sonneteer.