We could have had it all,
Rolling in our deep, sleep,
Before alarms peel away our eyelids,
Horror sweeping over our ears with the unattractive BEEP,
Forcing a masochistic game of snooze,
Grey clouds lift for 30 seconds,
Before realisation sets in the blues,
The early morning bitter cold covers skin like a mocking blanket,
And we force ourselves to rise at the waist,
Like Frankenstein's creation,
Trudging along to glance fleetingly in the mirror,
And discover the image bears no relation,
To any normal facet of a human's public visage,
But instead would feel more at home,
On a wanted poster; Criminal at large!
And with that mug-shot firmly ensconced in our brain,
We shuffle to the shower,
To warm water,
Then to open the door to the cold,
Much to our disdain,
But for now we must banish these thoughts,
We must dress our weary body,
And pick up pace,
To not be late,
To not be seen as shoddy,
And, finally, we arrive at the door,
Finally we leave the depths of sleep,
For the warmth of the woken shore,
And begin to check voicemail,
To see what the day has in store.
So finally we are through our own personal hell,
And in approximately 2 hours,
We will seem less like a fragile shell,
And all the problems of the day, we shall fell,
Keeping our calm,
Our fatigue in-check,
Our professionalism not yet lost,
For we can at least proudly profess,
'Good morning, you're through to Mr Frost'.

© Alex Frost 2010