Tomorrow

When comes the morning--with the touch of Night's fingers raking their sorrow across the sky, Its dreams closed off from consciousness. It comes, bruised from Night's attempt for shining-- Colors marked--red on orange, pink on yellow, purple dreams. The skies are dawning her spirit's wings. Fire likes from the sun, burn with torn tears, at waking From asleep's breaking. Self is free, like the light, Going straight nowhere.