5:00 A.M.

This is mainly a way I feel about that time of morning.

It tastes like horror.

Like a dark frightening bedtime story meant to bring images of terror to the mind. Moist fragments float in perfect harmony into my skin, dusting it with compliments of their condensed pollution. I wish I could taste the rain, but it is not here. This is not as fresh or clear. This is bland and burdened by a smoky fog that dulls my visage with its blurred obesity.

 It is applied thickly upon sodden grounds. Covering the space within space, fulfilling things that are stagnant with its obscure presence. Ghost stories. It feels like a tingling ghost story, resulting in more than just unconscious chills running down my spine. For it is cold. A cool taint of still air, practically frozen in a haze around me.

The world is crying. Dripping reflective droplets into damp fertile soil. These tears of nature affect me for I touch their feelings. And become one.

Dripping.

If I close my eyes the scents hit me. Dead leaves, mixed together in a musky funeral. Fragrant blooms opening their petals to the first tinges of sunlight, warm in their release of pollen. How unashamed they are, to be used daily. To have their core spread around the world like a breeding disease, infecting, and growing. Damn the bees, who use, and then leave.

I hear the birds.

Their communication to each other is like a social barrier I can never cross. To join them would be odd, so I stand in this moment. Lost to the mysteries of morning. Unsure of myself, but so aware of this world that has awakened.