The soul-weary tend to linger, longing
for the last bits of magic still hanging,
glinting in the black of wee morning
air, as the first ribbon of red flame limns
the eastern sky. A few more, they plead,
just a few more of these clean breaths,
before the blaze of Day, 'neath the gaze
and glare of the One who drives, drives.
Onward must have its inward, as all the
journeyers know, and inward must have
its outward, its reach, its touch-and-be-
touched by what lies beyond the veil of
                                                                light.