Late Night, Early Morning

It's all a matter of perspective, isn't it? What you call that cursed time of 4 AM Is it the last vestige of the day? Or the bleariest beginning of next? My graveyard shift ends as the faintest colors of dawn emerge Sunlight lets me know I've broken bad ground And rush to sleep while the others are stirring And waking up when dusk paints the horizon What must it be like to see the sunrise And not feel trepidation? Even when I've seen it under proper circumstances It's always been some form of harbinger That there's a whole day left to go That everything I spent all night accomplishing Must keep going and time never ceases Never hopeful, but as a grim reminder of what's to come