The agony of the early morning can be translated into the

heaviness of my eyelids, being a morning or a night person

is just a matter of habit, and my habits are those of the
unruling sway of the inexplicable laws of unprecedented
events.
Attempting to dance with words when the sun shines
bright like the gold in the mirror salon, is like trying to
attempt to walk on water at the sight of God.
But I try, to open my eyes a little more, and not fade away
with the early morning breeze and the mist, dusting the
sparkly water of the paper thin wings lying on my back,
bringing me down, pulling me to the face of the earth in an
attempt to water my dress with the underground waters
of the Acheron, to drown myself in the clouds of oblivion
of the ethereal verses of the beloved lovers of the muses.
Borrowing memories of long forgotten souls, painting the
invisible canvas of the perfect image for the day to come.