Mornings are, for me, a slog through lethargy:
A hungover fog of lassitude converges on, and covers, me.
The night, supposed to wash fatigue away, brings me full circle, right where I was before:
Wanting more of that fleeting thing called “sleep.” Yet slowly I creep through the morning’s activities, all while shimmering light harasses
My sleep-starved eyes.
Mornings are, for me, like moving through molasses.