Come sleepy morn,
From toss and turn,
Eyes half open,
Without vocal clarity.
Frosty fingers fumble from fall's sudden entrance,
So the story goes, over the duration of one night,
The glass became half full.
Pen to paper,
I write in a weary state.
Lean back once to soften the blow of reality.
My navy blue dreams converge upon a surreal state of chaos.
And finally I found my way there,
Wearily standing at the doorway of thirty rooms.