I really don't know...
What does one write about at this time of morning?
The moon still reigns,
But the rise of the sun steadily approaches.
Dew has strewn itself across the grass,
A blanket that will shimmer in a few hours.
All is calm; all is still.
What does that mean for how I feel?
Are any emotions elicited at this time more honest, more real?
As the sun and moon juxtapose their respective arrival and departure,
My feelings fail to do the same.
What's here is what's here.
It's all so clear,
Yet shrouded in the darkness of the night.
Writing is my brightest gift, so I write.
Illumination for the consternation,
Conflagrations of concentrations of excellence.
Proficient descriptions of my emotions and attachments
Shine a light in the deep chasm of my affection,
Bringing me that much closer to clarity.
Yet, as unsure as I am about whether this is night or morning,
I'm not sure if this is love forming.
...I really don't know.
-A. Lewis
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