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
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