In the valley of almost-morning, where the tea kettle sings a ballad of forgotten waters,
The clocks refuse to tick, in protest of daylight, thus keeping time a secretive affair.
Shadows play hide and seek, but they're terrible at seeking,
For even shadows have their secrets, hidden in the pockets of singed sunlight.
Feathered thoughts wander, questioning the essence of chirps,
As pigeons recite Shakespeare to bewildered street lamps.
The slice of dawn's dimness is not bright nor dark,
Just a whisper of day, tiptoeing on the edge of night’s curtain call.
Ever felt the urge to yawn philosophically?
It's an art, perfected in the halls of half-awake gods.
Join the class with an owl's distant hoot as the instructor.
The syllabus? A winding road with no end but many curves.
Chasing Origins | Chuckle of the Breeze | Whispering Windows