Progress

I see a new dawn rising,
like some ruffian conductor raising his baton to count the time.
It goes down like coffee in the frigid winter,
or summer rum with ice and lime.
All hard to explain,
Just taste for yourself.

I feel the blazing retire of the evening sun,
dragged down like a cokehead at lockup,
cold steel biting into tense determination.
stubbornly painting beauty into the darkness.
A jagged pill to swallow,
So shed your tear, and choke it down.

I've heard the quiet moon still rises,
casting solemn shadows like curtains over my ruined sphere,
some say it feels like a blanketed child breathing:
soft into the night air.
A quiet assurance that all is well with me despite the pain,
so brush off the dust of yesterday, and stroll on to hope.