There are some that reveals after midnight

Like how the fairy’s magic disappears,

And the pumpkin carriage vomits the paint over its lungs,

baring its gum between the whistles of dawn

just to be left naked with a color

Oranges are tantalizingly sweet

— and sickeningly sour.

Yet,

After an hour into the new day

Minutes sprinting, legs short and mouths panting.

Hours are warning,

— long strides and calling;

“Be careful, don’t rush!

We have a day ahead,

Why the chase when we were around the bush?"

"It’s the feeling”, said the minutes with a hush

”It is here, I am here, we are here!"

"Now now dear,

then call me when the end is near!”

So it is an hour in,

And I feel the may to my lungs

While my teeth are out clean,

— but they are itching.

My claws are open,

Yet they are fidgeting.

I said it is an hour in,

Yet my existence is already vibrating.

All to bear my words,

— for my stomach to be seen.