One of those mornings

I'm not quite sure what type this is. Sort of a short story which became more like a poem. I initially intended to begin a story...

 It was one of those brilliant mornings. The ones where you wake up, refreshed, as if rising from a washbasin of clear ether that could be either the purest essence of a crystalline mountain stream sparkling clean despite its descent or shining moonshine streaming from above unblemished by the vaguest of shadows or particles of dust.  Sitting up, the eyes meets the outer fringes of the sun’s rays as it is just peeking over the horizon.  A bit piercing, like a clarion bell ringing fiercely but cheerfully.  The filaments its many rayed arms color the sky, brushing with clouds shades of soft pink, deep purple, radiant oranges and streaks of yellow that have been brushed again by a brush laden with dew so that all the colors blur into each other, not dripping off the page into lumps of separate stains, but mixing and melding into gentle waves of transient hues.  Breathing in deeply for morning yawning, a wave of dust rushes in to greet pearly white gates, rushing through to settle into the recesses of one’s lungs where they will hopefully be recycled out, which they would be if there was not a constant curtain of swimming debris usually unseen except when the occasions of natural light shine spotlights upon them when it can find the cracks in aging walls or avenues through drooping leaves shading all the windows like blindfolds of shifting living silk petals over eyes.  And upon waking, one immediately feels drowsy again, wrapped in dozens of heavy blankets that make movement like swimming through molasses, heavy and sticky.  The glorious sky seen in the moments briefly between the veils of dreaming and waking fades swiftly into a murky grayness mirroring the smog filtered morning sending grayed diluted light into the rectangular box of wood, brick or stone, built to protect oneself when sleeping and from waking.