Happiness, it's a new day (Cynical version)

The fugg that rises with the morning mist

takes with it more than just these

peculiar dreams and ragged hems,

unbinds the seem and welcomes banality;

'Come, pour yourself upon my plate

whilst I denude this ephemeral flower;

It blooms just out of sight and always

just beyond hands reach.'

The bleaching of the day begins...

stillborn will is mourned in the hinterland

'twixt the ebb of sleep and the forthcoming wake

and is forgotten that toil may rule here, anew,

duty and necessity pierce my eye

and the colours bleed out.

If all that will be waits beneath the sand,

why is it tarmac'd?