They Call It The Mourning

 They call it the Morning,
because everything that was lost in the night,
becomes fully illuminated in the dawn's light.

The deluge of delusion empowered in darkness by fleeting dreams,
Evaporates, leaving only the salt of truth to be seen.
It sediments and crystalizes,
only truth, no more lies then.

It is always the morning,
when the heart is its softest,
where it lets its self sing its songs most honest
-of pleasure and pain-
-odes to all that no longer remains-
-While the birds sing along-
In a chorus of harmony.

As they all sing
(my heart and those birds)
I let myself weep, even if only silently.
It is a composition of what remains,
Tears fall like cleansing rains,
an attempt to release the strains,
To let go of all hate and pains,
A chance to soften the heart,
The space to let love, joy, and curiosity play,
...and to see the new day for what it is...
A chance for a brand new start.
᳀