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The Precinct
The Precinct
Slowly the shadows of night-time begin to appear
In corners, and crannies, they take their usual place
And quietly gather together until I can hear
The voice of darkness, and whispers that rustle like lace.
Soon they will join, holding hands to form silence and peace,
Soft blankets that comfort and hide all the trials of the day,
They speak of the world and their voices will gently release
All the unspoken words that the tormented dead have to say.
Sanctuary waits for all souls that are seemingly lost
In the now empty precincts, like doves on the wing they alight,
Knowing that here the last boundaries are finally crossed,
And their still aching hearts may be saved in the dead of the night.
Hope is the burden they carry wherever they go,
As they silently run when the mornings first light starts to glow.
Copyright ©
Tim Riding
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