There is no such thing as a beautiful morning,

the hours, the minutes just click by

between light and dark,

both coloured a charcoal grey,

and I grow tired of them both

being the same, even

when there is a handsome sun

riding the clouds like a lover gasping for air

or the moon desperately seeking solace,

away from prying eyes, shrinking

in its magnificence;

I find them both worthy of the same attention

and that is why

my blue eyes are closed.