Surrealism

Everything feels so different in the morning. The heavy handed grip of night is released, and we’re left with a surreal calmness and tranquility. I live for mornings. It’s the only calm I get.
The sky is a pearly grey with dew drops hanging in her stormy eyes. The trees sway, great founts of water shaking off their grand ferns. There is a quiet to it. A peace.
Yesterday’s tears are in the sky. They’re in the trees. But they’re no longer in my eyes.

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