Drumbeat of Dawn

When I rise, the void hums a dirge—tung, tung, tung—

A muffled drum in the marrow, where shadows have sung.

The rhythm claws through the dark, a primal, lone cry,

Yet in its hollow beat, a spark of "why" ignites the sky.

Each boom, each dung dung, a nail in sorrow's coffin lid,

But stoic souls count the cracks where light will bleed and spread.

For the drum's not a dirge—it's a heart in disguise,

Beating the path from abyss to the sun's reborn rise.