An Elegy

A story of death, and an amour with life.

I am not a morning person.
Not in reluctance of a new horizon,
But in defeat
For in the waking world, I find
again, I've lost
Surrendered a third of my time to unwholesome unconsciousness.

I'm a human.
Unique--
like everyone else.
In that, I'm ashamed of this poem.
An injustice.
A loss.
That little white lies that grabs and twists.
For no person can say they know themselves whist telling the truth.

I'm a singer
but I'll never sing a eulogy,
for Death might make songs of us all,
given the chance.
He'd stow us in the hidey-holes of hearts,
locked away so that one might not spill--
might not recall what's lost
despite all that was gained.
It doesn't do to do Death's work
while we're still of the living.

I am awake.
A person.
A bright red elegy.
I will sing of life the day I die,
for even in all that's been lost
I have gained.