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First Morning Light

Hope is fragile.

By Alexzandria the PoetPublished 6 years ago 1 min read
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First morning light to start the morning day, the sun peeks from behind a gray, rain-filled cloud and then goes back into hiding.

Why must the sun leave us with rivers of God's tears at our feet?

Why must the coldness of the devil's heart wrap around my bones like fit mittens? It makes me cold from my head to my toes, it's the coldness that burns.

Winter must come but it will not leave until it kills us all first.

Second evening light to end the day, the sun dips behind the neighbor's house. It's gone for the next twelve hours. The sky that was a beautiful arrangement of blue, pink, and orange, is now only a dark void. The stars are hardly sparkling, but it is still cold, there is frost on my nose.

Why must the sun leave us at the devil's doorstep when she is done with us? His coldness drips between every cracked street, every hallway. It drips between every broken window, every open front door. It drips between my fingertips and engulfs my hands with numbness. It finds its way to my ears, and it stings when I touch them. Now, I cannot feel my nose, and my sense of smell depletes. There is only so much time until he reaches my heart. I pray he does not reach my heart.

First morning light to start the morning day, the sun doesn't come up.

It's dark and it's cold, and I'm starting to think I might wake back up from a dream. The devil has us is in his cold hands now, and the light does not find us anymore.

How did we become so lost?

surreal poetry
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About the Creator

Alexzandria the Poet

Hey, I'm Alexzandria!

I've been writing poetry since I was a freshman in high school, and I'm now a freshman in college double majoring in Religious Studies and Journalism. You can most likely find me searching for a pen I just had.

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