The early morning

Early morning darkness,
in swirling misty grey.
Ideas are ghostly phantoms;
that have come out to play.

Not just there to scare,
though fear may grip your bones.
They'll tantalise and tease,
and haunt the very things
that play upon your soul.

You'll get itchy fingers,
a fidget plagues your skin.
Can't sit still and wont think straight.
In early morning darkness,
when everyone else does sleep.

A tingling knowledge of what should come,
it whispers to your mind.
Jump or leap, nudging you to the edge...
But cold take over and the morning  does arise.

Ghosts become echoes and memory fades away.

In the early morning,
when all is grey,
the possible may come to life.
An infant fire, easily extinguished by the waking mind,
may through primal embers carry a fire.
And in the waking day time,
things may burn again.