Paired Lines of the Ordinary

Every morning, as my eyes break from the quiet dark,

I whisper to the silence, asking what this day will carve.

Will it be another stretch of familiar gray,

Or will the winds of fate stir, painting the hours in a richer way?

Will the clock’s steady pulse just echo the known,

Or might a spark fracture the routine, casting shadows over the monotonous stone?

Will my steps trace the well-worn lines of comfort’s weary map,

Or will I stumble into something that pulls me from this ceaseless, silent trap?