Writers 
Upon the edge of waking where the morning whispers rise,
A golden haze of amber paints the waking eastern skies.
The city sleeps in quiet peace before the rush begins,
Before the turning of the wheels and daily noise and dins.
A solitary pigeon perches on a chimney stack,
With feathers grey as winter clouds and midnight on its back.
It surveys the sleeping avenues, the pavement cold and grey,
And greets the quiet herald of a brand new, pristine day.
We build our lives on moments that are fragile as the glass,
And watch the golden moments like a rushing river pass.
We chase ambitions far and wide across the shifting earth,
And search for validation and our true, intrinsic worth.
Yet beauty often hides in things we scarcely pause to see—
The shadow of a building or the rustling of a tree,
The laughter of a stranger echoing across a square,
The feeling of a sudden breeze that dances through the air.
The architect of memory constructs a fragile hall,
Where pictures hang in silence on a whitewashed, dusty wall.
Each frame contains a summer, or a winter cold and stark,
A beacon of remembrance shining brightly in the dark.
We walk these inner galleries when twilight starts to fall,
And listen to the quiet ghosts that softly rise and call.
For time may take the seconds and may sweep them far away,
But what we truly cherish stays and brightens every day.
So hold the present moment close before it slips on by,
Like clouds that drift effortlessly across the open sky.
Embrace the journey, every step, the steep and winding road,
And find the inner strength to bear life's ever-changing load.
For in the tapestry of time, each thread is fine and true,
And every single dawn brings something wonderful for you.
