First Sunday
The first Sunday I knew emptiness,
The day midnight opened its door,
With me, this hollow has stayed,
A symphony that has intermittently played.
Unshielded I was for this,
Halted it had me in my footsteps,
I walk like a wounded hare,
At me, grief has chosen to stare.
You eased into the night,
I lost hope’s light,
My soul is despondent,
I'm a tree with feeble boughs.
Sunset memories cloud my chamber,
They stealthy creep into my slumber,
You said twilight has a voice,
This I hear in turbulent rhythms.
June 16, 2023.
Copyright © Thompson Emate | Year Posted 2023
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