Blood-Red Morning

A blood-red private view of morning A second chance to climb the attic stairs. The ceiling, ticking time, cascades A thousand pricking darts, stampeding Purple chariots, blanketing the sky. The zealot's blade, so swift to still The heart that beats an alien rhythm, No backward glance to desolation. Within a vastness all-consuming, The wolf retreats to primal isolation And howls unheeded at a distant, Cold and quite indifferent moon. As thunder clouds converge And drown all hope of harvest home, We find that, like the wolf, we are alone. Inertia quickens, takes a hand, At last to move the day. The cabbage, wilting on the edge of sanity, Bleakly views the blackened pot. The steady chop chop chop is heralding The grand ensemble of the daily stew. Regardless, now the day's awake, The perils lost in sleep are there anew. The blood-red now transforms to palest grey. The resurrected monotone of every day.