Morning

The seeds of despair are not to be dust. It settles on the soul and ferments it for growth. Despair born out of reflection, regret and resentment is fuel for the growth of the soul. The soul becomes bathed in tears, sweat and saliva. 

Tears bubble to the surface, as water spouts from the stone, under pressure awaiting release. Sweat perspired by sheer effort to resist the urge to sway away from the straight unerring path. Saliva drying up in the mouth, ever begging for assistance from only that which can give it.

The morning is always mistaken to be when the sun rises and light breaks the sky. No, the morning is in the pitch darkness that births dew on grass and shivers in the spine. The morning is born in the twilight only witnessed by stars and moon, between the two suns of sunrise and sunset. The morning emerges, greeted by only a few, yet it holds the grand entrance of the one that causes the sun and moon to tick-tock perfectly.

I seek the morning that 

is lived by few and embraced by even fewer. 

I seek the morning that 

comes with the breeze of solitude and silence.

I seek the morning that 

precedes the daybreak, like a gentle mother.

I seek the morning that 

holds promise for my meeting with Him.