The mornings are all a blur,
With baby blue hems with pretty white lace,
Which is blown away when the wind stirs.
The day is fickle, her and her gowns,
Which changes as her moods sweeten and sour,
From purples to blues to greys to reds,
Dost she toss around.
She twirls and turns around the room,
Until her round faced sister takes the stage,
Only one dress hath she to offer,
But infinitely more beautiful than her sister, Day.
Embedded with sparkly things,
Layers of translucent material hang from her sleeves,
That helped time and time again to cover her face,
When that happens, all fall asleep to the silent lullaby she doth sing.
After Day, the silvery voiced, wakes the world from slumber,
Does she rise from beneath the covers,
And bathes the world in all her radiant beauty.
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