Mornings
The cold snapped at my warm skin
Yelling at me that if I shouldn't get up
There would be consequences.
I held the warm, soft blankets to my body
As the outside world seemed so unpleasant
My dreams were so much more pleasant
More vivid, and more in control.
Yet the brutal force of the cold made it's way
Into my warm shelter of a bed
Then it beckoned me to get up and
Go seize the day.
I considered it an attack to my dreams and my warmth
These attacks are called Mornings of course.
This poem is about:
Me