Broken Morning

They expect night to fall.

Night must always fall.

These are people who

can't see night as anything but dark.

(Stars, either out of the picture,

or shining uselessly,

already dead by the time their images come.)

These are the black and white people,

watching the night in a notion of duty and courage;

and when the day comes

they almost miss it -

it isn't new,

or distinct - it wavers

on the edge of night

like a pale continuation.

And then they can't help

seeing night in day, seeing its remains,

daylight casting shadows under their eyes.

Predictable -

who watches night's long fall

must see a broken morning.

A/N: This piece was dedicated to sweetspontaneous, and for Clara. I hope you like it - it's rather abstract, and literary in places. I just felt that the title, which randomly appeared in my mind, deserved a poem - and this was it.