normal day

it starts before the crow,
of the neighbours cockrel,
rarely on a prayer,
for many i have sent,
yet lie on the inbox tray,
a cup barely of tea,
more of warm water,
a lie to the stomach,
a step out that door,
to the annoyance of the strangers,
wishing me a good morning,
but i see nothing so good,
nothing to be proud of,
nothing to smile about,
for all is but the begining,
of another strungle,
of a fatherless child,
in a black continent,
woods infested with beasts,
man eaters behind every tree,
to hopes of sunrise,
yet darkness carries the day,
and i walk back,
hopeless,
faithless,
to a cold bed,
tatters of worn out beddings,
matresses and blankets,
and i close my eyes,
to a timed death,
and when i resurrect,
i can't help but call,
for the real death