The drunk man of morning come

The day often comes to me drunk with red eyes and a wild look on its face.

I ask of it , as if some sort of benevolent genie released from its bottle of innumerable time, to fulfill wishes i know will go unmet.

The day responds in words sloshed together at the bottow of an almest emply bottle of gin;

To wake , to sleep , to walk the dog, to love , to bare arms against, to resign, to surrender into, to claim agency or clamor against , to weep, to hold myself in love as I weep, to water the garden with these fallen tears, to damn the garden and build iron castles, the start of my empire. To conquer the whole world in nothing other than my fantasies.

But this time, the day came to me sober and pristine, brilliant in its smile with a light that hallows all of my memories and all of my futures. It told me to walk the cat, sit in still meditation, and collect myself while the whole world is still fast asleep. The course of noon is set, when the sun shyly peaks over the horizon in blushing phosphorescent orange. This morning, I came to the day differently and it mischievously whispered to me how everything whole begins.