Written on the first few pages of a cheaply bound, pocket-sized journal. The writing has been made with very cheap ink and a crude stylus, evidenced by smudged lines with blotchy intersections.
The sting of daylight like I barely recall,
and birds chirp like chapel bells.
The ground swells like a sailor’s bed,
and I swear I’ve grown, now, much too tall.
Where are the days of morning comfort,
Waking and rising to greet the sun?
Fled in the wake of evening revels,
Stooping to soothe the wailing stars.