A Morning Ode

A gray, pale morning light: the conscience of an untrodden day. Faded ivory, dashing black, blurring white; the notes seeping lustily from the instrument, falling face-first onto the cold, wooden floor. Thin, groggy beams of tired starlight and rusty sunlight bleed through the curtains, stretching across the dull and disinterested room like a light-post drooping over a blackened street, illuminating the dust hanging in the air like stars painted across the surface of the sky in a deep blue night. 

Etherized fingers of an etherized body moving across keys of emotion and color, pumping heat, pulling warmth, as the light grows and wakes: the sun stirs in the sky—a pale yellow face opening its eyes. Thin, groggy beams of tired starlight and rusty sunlight sit and stretch, now stirring, now waking, now rising, now falling. They dance and play, wasting away the day merry and gay. Grayness fades to beaming orange, thick and smiling, sweet and sliding. It sits, softly sipping the stretched-out silence, broken here and there by soft, sustained songs of love and longing. Such sweetness in its serenades it subdues, soft but strong. Cold, but calm.

The conscience of an untrodden day. Cold murmurs of a forgotten tune come to light in a chilling, chapped and blistered ode to the sunrise. Growing, the light joins, and an orchestra comes to play on this cold, tired, warm, lively morning. Crescendos of life and warmth, falling, now rising, then falling again. Strings softly vibrate and curve around the room. Music... drips, it giggles. The notes of a worn-out tune skip and jump, stirring and singing as the etherized fingers move across them, holding and releasing. An etherized hand navigates, on an etherized body, sitting alone in a cold and lonely room.