Poem: Morning


The sun arises o’er the trees,

Frost coats all the ground,

The light is bright and trace of night

Is banish’d by sun-tipped cloud.

A bird sings out upon the wire

A sweet, weepy-willowy sound.

So why does not my poor heart jump?

Why is it weighted down?

Why am I so unable to

Rejoice or sing aloud?

A heart like mine ought not to be

So very out of kind.

I’m used to dawn as time of joy

Not call to sorrow blind.

Seems bright light is night for me

And no change is close at hand.


Morning has always been one of my most favourite times of day, especially seeing the sun come up and light slowly brighten the sky. However, part of being depressed is that the things which used to bring joy are denied me. There’s a flatness, an undertone of uncomfortable-ness, which is unsettling and sad. It is in the morning that I do most of my thinking and it was this morning that I finally put words to that feeling in Morning.  I feels unfinished, unsettled and I’m hoping that maybe someday I’ll be able to write the rest of it.




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