Morning Fog

An alarm awakens me with a jolt of life.
It's early, much too so to be any other day.
The sun is nestled neatly on the furthest
ends of the horizon,
And the reality of my frightful awakening
sets in with my concession of nighttime eyes.
Comfort is the warmth one feels under
the down-feather blanket on the bed;
A reluctant yet needed dis-possession.
A few precious minutes are spent gathering
my effects for the day;
A ritual cherished for its delaying of that
inescapable coming of time.
I feel alive now;
No longer burdened with the reckless abandonment
of that beloved sleep,
I feel slightly energized by the all too
prevalent familiarity of this routine.
I feel it now as the marrow in my
legs hums with a subtle warming glow;
the grateful promise of greatness to come.
I feel it now too as the emptiness in
my chest is made to live again with the
laboring of lungs.
I've felt this too many times before as
I search for a set to rest my head;
But I've come to love it as much as I
have come to think of it with dread.
It is with a peculiar friendship that I
address the morning.
That lonely drive at the darkest of dawns
to a singularly lit field.
A gathering of shadows tells me the
day is about to begin, but
Not before I lay on the rigid
and unrelenting concrete, to makeshift
the bed for which i so desperately plead.
The atmosphere is palpable as I feel
the fog enshroud my eyes;
Talking is for people far more
lively than me...
Walking is for people far more
animated than me...
Laughing is for people far more
humored than me...
Running is for people...
Just like me...