Sunday Morning

A Poem by Jane Doe

You rise from your bed,
the very thing which lulled you to sleep as you lie awake in the early hours of the night,
as the black night sky infiltrated your mind and shared its stars,
and your mind was filled to the brink,
overflowing with thought
and you pondered about what could have been and what could be.
You inhale the morning sunlight
and for a split second every problem you ever had fades into the morning breeze,
and with an exhale they rush back
and all at once you remember everything you tried to forget.
If you’ve ever woken up early enough
to hear the birds sing their melodic melodies on these Sunday mornings,
then you know what I mean when I say that I love them,
that I love how serenity envelopes the world in the moments before it awakens.
For the world is in a blissful sleep
and it is here in their slumber that they are at their truest form,
and there is no conflict or heavy sadness to plague the world.
You bask in yellow
and every ounce of grey that once blurred your vision of the world has faded,
at least for a little while,
and you are left to breathe,
even if that very involuntary bodily function was so hard to do the night prior,
as each thought like individual needles pricked holes in your lungs
while you pondered,
and pondered,
and pondered...