The Ritual of Dawn

At seven each morning, the world wakes anew,

my neighbor steps out, coffee steaming like dew.

The bark of his dog, a metronome's call,

time folds like a story, as shadows grow tall.

He walks past my window, as sun starts to rise,

a cigarette smoldering, a ghost in disguise.

Each step a reminder of rhythms we keep,

while I lie in the stillness, caught somewhere deep.

In the hum of routine, I search for my song,

his life moves in patterns, while mine feels so wrong.