Have you ever noticed

That around 5am
everything starts to look like a graveyard.
How the world is daily forsaken by it’s human companions.
How those who remain seem but the breath of themselves,
remnants of the daylight preserved by the peculiarity of the night,
they do not belong.
And neither do you.
The cacaphony of birdsong
announces it,
they gossip about your death
as though it were a certain thing,
as though you lay already in ground slicked with rain or dew or teardrops,
wondering over whether your mother will wear grey or black.
The very ground you tread shimmers
into broken headstones beneath your weary feet
and the shrill of the crickets, to your aching head,
seems the very cry of the damned.
Your first sip of coffee tastes like poison.