Early Hours

It is the mourning period of the last night,
The early hours of the morn,
When foxes cry and frost descends,

I’m cloaked in the velvet breeze,
Lapping softly against my cheek,
This witching hour,
This twilight,
It is a meditative time,
When the sky burns its many candles,

Even as lethargy rears its head,
It is pleasant,
But it’s the calm before the storm,

Something appears on the horizon,
That eerie blue glow,
It is as beautiful as it is foreboding,
For I know what follows,
That which burns the eyes,
And wearies the soul.