The cold morning frost, accompanies a winter’s dawn.
I’m snuggling warm in bed, wondering about the day ahead.
It’s Sunday, my home’s empty, a great void instead.
The cool quiet and the loneliness, are unbearable.
The passageway to my light is dark, and hard to feel.
If only I knew, the light at the end of the tunnel was real.
In this grotto of fading night, lying low, out of sight.
Where my dreams are false, waiting for another right.