There are songs heard
only in the night,
that dissipate
with the morning light,
echoed by souls that exist without sight,
each melodious verse to recite,
every heartfelt note
of the medleys they write,
sung over and over
in torturous blight,
until each aria becomes
more of a  plight,
than beautiful music sung in the night.
And yet, sometimes...
beneath the moon's gentle light,
the notes burst
like a meteorite,
creating a most haunting sound
in the night,
as two separate melodies are born
and take flight,
like paired shooting stars,
gaining in height,
till both harmoniously unite--
only to perish
in the face of twilight.



To each soul comes a time
of assenting defeat,
when the book feels closed
and presumed complete;
a sense that there's nothing
more left to write,
as though someone,
turned off that last light.
It's a moment as profound
as conceding the fight,
as the soul gasps,
voicing its fright,
in discovering all
that remains is night.
And suddenly...
seems rather trite,
as you sit beneath
the pale moonlight,
starlight, starbright...
wish I may, wish I might--
Only you cut off
the beautiful end,
as you feel your soul
plunge and descend,
to a place where wishes
no longer matter,
and dreams scatter...
and hearts splatter.
And amidst
all the clatter
is the presentiment
that something
is about to shatter.


There is a silence that speaks of me...
revealing far more
than there is to see,
of what was and is to be.
And the music keeps playing bewailingly,
as I listen with
to the soul's tender soliloquies,
while the night sky paints
a portrait of me,
and the trees bow ever so somberly;
everything playing out rather poetically,
were it not all so very

And so I turn, dear God,
to thee...
in resignation and humility.
Might thou show some grace,
and decree
some form of clemency,
for one so hopelessly lost
as me--
if not now,


When I awoke, it was early morning... I lay, looking straight up at the blue-green sky, with its translucent shawl of mist; like a tiny orb of crystal, solitary and serene, Venus shone through the haze of the quiet ocean. I heard children laughing nearby.
I stirred, blessing my resurrection...

'Neath cold sand, I dreamed of death, but woke at dawn to see in glory the bright morning star... This was not judgment day, only morning;
morning, excellent and fair.

-William Styron-
June 11, 1925-November 1, 2006

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