Fallen Night

Monday morning,

20th of August,

All wake up in a city of dawn,

Sun rises across the shifting.

Tea drinkers realize first,

Doctors second,

Grandmothers rise, they wait for flowers.

He never became the artist he was,

Murdered by his own cause,

Defeated.

I won’t wake him,

Just let him sleep,

He’ll wake once more.

Never mind,

I’ll soak up the floor.

© 2007 David Greg Harth

07.08.20.02:27:27@296NYC