No stomach and an ever waking night,
I pass the hours pining for the morn.
Its dawning holds a promise doubly bright,
As rise of sun will light my hopes reborn.
And still these hopes–held captive days of late
By actless thoughts and fickle turns of chance–
May yet remain imprisoned, begging fate
To favor them with kinder circumstance.
So sits ambition like an unsprung rose
Unblossomed yet, but eager for the hour
When will itself defeats my doubtful woes
And bud bursts forth to yield my fancy’s flower.
        But as I stumble toward such sweet success,
        The magic grows amidst my fond distress.

_{Photo courtesy of Monstera at Pexels.}