The morning begins, half-lit,
drenched in the residue of dreams,
we stumble into the day\'s kitchen,
coffee brewing, toast waiting to pop,
each thought perched, teetering on
the rim of possibility, half-full or
half-empty, the mind\'s cup balancing
between sunshine and the abyss.
It\'s a choice, really, this first sip,
how we digest the hours ahead,
whether the neighbor\'s hello is
a chorus or a question, the sky\'s
blue a promise or a taunt, the
pavement beneath our feet an
invitation or a trap door waiting
to swing open with each step.
Beware, if that first thought lingers
too long in the shadows, if the
morning light feels like interrogation,
and every honk, every face on
the street is a conspiracy, the city
an unfurling map of treachery,
it\'s easy to get lost in the tangle
of worries, the abyss calling softly.
But remember, the choice is yours,
to tilt the glass toward the light,
to find the warmth in a stranger\'s
smile, to hear music in the traffic,
to see the city as a canvas, each
moment a brushstroke, every
step a dance, the cup half-full,
brimming with the promise of day.