By Nancy Davis.
The morning sank its talons in the fabric of his night,
came soaring like an eagle, ripping forth the rays of light.
The sunlight brightly glowing through the clouds of his despair
was licking at his open wounds, a life in disrepair.
The sun was long a stranger while he walked the path alone,
for pain was etched within his heart, the sorrow was his own.
The darkness that surrounded him a brackish sea of woe,
and brave attempts at levity were thoughts he did forego.
The morning’s intervention only heightened all his tears.
He fashioned an umbrella to protect him from his fears
and fortified the fence he used to hold the sun at bay
while he embraced the mem’ries from a used up yesterday.