The Pain of Night
She much preferred the days. In rays of sun
She’d wrap herself as if they were a shawl.
But quiet horror crept when day was done,
for Night closed in - a grim and awful pall.
That memory more easily suppressed
when sunlight drenched her soul came flooding in
as shadows loomed, and then a blackness pressed
into her consciousness the guilt of sin.
Though it was not a sin deliberate,
the Pain of Night arrived as if to scoff
at her for thinking that she might forget
the time she drove her car, then nodded off. . .
How horrible that sight she can’t erase -
her victim’s young and bloodied stricken face.
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2015
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