Poetry

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Early morning
silence embraces,
his footsteps softly
traverse the hall.
Bluish tinted walls
lay left and right,
a wake
within the peripheral of night.
The couch waits
in the darkness like a friend.
And meets him
as he bends his knees beside,
He lays, head on arm,
across the cushion,
as though within the stillness
he would hide.
His heart beats
into his eyes
and forces tears
to fall to arm and couch.
Bemoaning
what has driven man from God,
He pleads for Light,
and for the coming
of the Morning Son.

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