THE INNOCENCE OF MORNING
© 1981 W. C. Highsmith


THE EYES OF THE TORTURED SOUL
PEERS INTO THE DARKNESS.
THE NIGHT IS INK BLACK AND ICY COLD,
WITH NO LIGHTS' TWINKLE AND
VOID OF THE WARMTH OF LIFE.

RISING FROM THE CRACKS AND CRANNIES, EMANATING
FROM THE WALLS OF THIS CRYPT OF GLOOM ARE
THE SOUNDS OF HELL - CRIES OF ANGUISH, LIES,
WHISPERS OF LONELINESS AND TAUNTS OF DEFEAT.

WHERE IS THE BEACON? OH! WHERE IS THE DAWN?

....And There Was Light,
Golden Shafts Streaking The Indigo Sky,
Arising In The East.

Oh! How Enchanting Is
That Special Moment,
A Temporal Quietness
Ever So Gently Broken By
Rousing Subjects Of The Realm.

Birds Gather In Treetops
And Unite In Natural Chorus With
The Bubbling Sounds Of A Gentle Brook.

Leaves Rustle Along The Path Of A Timid Deer
In Symphony With A Tiny Splash
Of Some Minute Creature In A Pool.

As The Domain Of Darkness Fails
Upon Its Encounter With Daylight,
A New Freshness Is In The Air.

A Special Perfume Wafts
On The Morning Breeze
Ascending Upward From New Blooms.

In Every Direction,
There Is A Silent Explosion Of Color
Married With The Sparkle Of Dewdrops,
Glittering, Dancing From Each Sunbeam
To Every Flower.

This Is The Innocence Of Morning.

A Day Is Born In The Innocence Of Morning -
Only To Grow And Then Pass Away In The
Violence Of Midnight,

A Day Is Born .....



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