I sometime admire the idea of knowing where to draw the line between times of the day, at what does the afternoon turn into an evening and the evening into night. At what time lines does the day know that we must change our moods and do we really change based on that anyways. Are we programmed to be more mellow over the evening and grumpier over the morning? Are we designed to love the morning air sometimes, and yet hate to get up without the coffee? This fascination about the time of day amuses me sometimes as I see different sides of people at different times. In the randomness of it all, I find warm hearts at all odd hours and more of life I listen to the more I want to hear.
Time of day
It was the beginning somewhere, somewhere along the start of it all,
When the tea is brewing quietly and the whole world for once has been put on hold.
When the weary eyes, holds me back the morning dream reminds me of things,
Of the reason I get out of bed, when the day ahead still lies in my dreams
The time of days that shuffles around, plays games of card that only a few know,
They are hidden in plane sight, they are undisclosed they are cards which they do not show
I am reminded of transition often times, of winnings we take home and our losses too,
Why we live with expectations still, why there's something something exciting to see things through.
We will find a reason to painfully sublime, we will all wrap ourselves in phases of the day,
From time to time when we are most of ourselves and yet we seem to move away
The admiration of the few must come and go, like hours we count into the night or evening still,
I find myself like the half empty wine bottle waiting for a drink, for a glass to be filled
Pour me a day, it has sweetened & aged, it is time we taste what is unknown,
I have too little to be gained, to much to loose and yet I would rather have the story unfold
Paint me a picture with lines that don't connect, write me a story with faint meaning someway,
Why we count our many hours, why we write to transitions and our times of the day.
Time of day
It was the beginning somewhere, somewhere along the start of it all,
When the tea is brewing quietly and the whole world for once has been put on hold.
When the weary eyes, holds me back the morning dream reminds me of things,
Of the reason I get out of bed, when the day ahead still lies in my dreams
The time of days that shuffles around, plays games of card that only a few know,
They are hidden in plane sight, they are undisclosed they are cards which they do not show
I am reminded of transition often times, of winnings we take home and our losses too,
Why we live with expectations still, why there's something something exciting to see things through.
We will find a reason to painfully sublime, we will all wrap ourselves in phases of the day,
From time to time when we are most of ourselves and yet we seem to move away
The admiration of the few must come and go, like hours we count into the night or evening still,
I find myself like the half empty wine bottle waiting for a drink, for a glass to be filled
Pour me a day, it has sweetened & aged, it is time we taste what is unknown,
I have too little to be gained, to much to loose and yet I would rather have the story unfold
Paint me a picture with lines that don't connect, write me a story with faint meaning someway,
Why we count our many hours, why we write to transitions and our times of the day.
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