The Next Morning

After the longest night of the year,
we waited quietly for the morning to come.
We held hands and sang lowly, in the cold,
our breath mingling in frosty fog.

We did not know the world had passed us by,
and so we waited, and waited, and are waiting,
still, for a sun that shall never rise.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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