_brandoninidaho1979_
The Treachery of Morning
Oh, why can’t a working man just sleep in on a Sunday morning? Why can’t the sun wait till he’s ready? The perpetual boredom of earning a living wears on a fella. A nail hammered in repeatedly till the hammer bruises and splits the goddamn wood around him even. You can only be beaten down so damn far. A little nub of steel still showing through, where there once was something more, not great, but still stiff, straight and ready for action. The hammer always swings down for some, for most. Leaving that dot of steel exposed to rust and to disappear.
Why can’t the sun wait till he’s ready? Give a poor fucker a break once in awhile? Let him sleep a bit longer? Let him dream past his hanger-over for a bit? Let him ache a bit in his bed, instead of upright in gravity defying ache? Let him sleep instead of dodging the every falling hammer? Let him sleep past that responsibility of living, that woeful chaos that comes just from breathing, come on now, just give him a bit longer can’t ya? Oh, come on sun just let a man snore a bit more?
The sun waits for no man, no one thing. Centered in the middle of a great vast nothing, exerting total control. Lay off of me you great golden son of a bitch will ya? A working man owes more than he can ever repay and a drinking man always pays the next morning.
But the sun he knows, he owes me nothing.
The Treachery of Morning
Oh, why can’t a working man just sleep in on a Sunday morning? Why can’t the sun wait till he’s ready? The perpetual boredom of earning a living wears on a fella. A nail hammered in repeatedly till the hammer bruises and splits the goddamn wood around him even. You can only be beaten down so damn far. A little nub of steel still showing through, where there once was something more, not great, but still stiff, straight and ready for action. The hammer always swings down for some, for most. Leaving that dot of steel exposed to rust and to disappear.
Why can’t the sun wait till he’s ready? Give a poor fucker a break once in awhile? Let him sleep a bit longer? Let him dream past his hanger-over for a bit? Let him ache a bit in his bed, instead of upright in gravity defying ache? Let him sleep instead of dodging the every falling hammer? Let him sleep past that responsibility of living, that woeful chaos that comes just from breathing, come on now, just give him a bit longer can’t ya? Oh, come on sun just let a man snore a bit more?
The sun waits for no man, no one thing. Centered in the middle of a great vast nothing, exerting total control. Lay off of me you great golden son of a bitch will ya? A working man owes more than he can ever repay and a drinking man always pays the next morning.
But the sun he knows, he owes me nothing.