The gray of foggy, sad mornings

Wishing an hour more of

Nothing to do

No tears to cry

No place to be

The illusion of time suspended

Between sunset and sunrise

When dreams are the action of inaction

And no sunlight signals Go!

When sad can be the fertile soil of dreams

Not the soggy muck of life.

I was always a writer but lived in a bookkeeper’s body before I found Medium and broke free — well, almost. Working to work less and write more.

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