Might the Morning?

Might the morning be so polite?
To leave me be whilst I invite,
A lonely friend of the night
To lend me his sense of sight.

So that I should feel less sore
as a sight for a fewer four – who
without glasses are but a paltry two!
Morning, I mean to say its you.

Might the evening lend me its scent?
A luxury that looms magnificent.
I am but a stale paled gent,

Stood in the shade of sunlight spent.

Might I speak in my own voice?

Time beckons to “make a choice”
Whether to wither, James or Joyce
Might I speak in my own voice?

Might I beg a chance to make?

My stomach hungry, my thirst slaked,
The Fagin’s gamble on a winning stake,
Or a pretty moment where hearts break.

Might the morning softly tread?

And not disturb the dreaming dead,
Who once beheld beauty, instead -
of the eyes that these words have read.