The Day

The day began, a carbon copy made,
Of countless others in December's shade.
A chilling rain dripped from a leaden sky,
And time, it seemed, would slowly crawl on by.

The wind's lament a mournful melody,
Played on the rooftops, wild and misery-free.
A cup of tea, a book, a fire's low hum,
Another day, predictably numb.

But fate, it seems, had other plans in store,
A twist, a turn, a knocking at the door.
A whispered word, a phone call in the night,
That shattered calm and banished gentle light.

A change so stark, so sudden and so deep,
That sleep was banished, secrets it would keep.
The cold rain stopped, the clouds began to break,
And in its place, a new dawn to awake.

Now etched in memory, sharp and undeniably real,
The day's dull start, the wound that time can heal.
For had it stayed a monochrome, gray frame,
No doubt, forgotten, it would bear no name.