There is always something so heroic
About the morning for me
Whether it rushes over us
Or idles at the gate
Nursing its mythic proportions
A god we take for granted
Unless he stares us in the face
Scolding our limited vision
With his force and grandeur
A child who wants to know everything
A survivor who has swallowed darkness
And come back with the only flint
Still dry in his pocket
Eager to burst into flames
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