There are nights when fitful sleep comes with frightful,

uneasy grins,

“mums the word,” he whispers—hand over my mouth—then artful dreams

he spins.

Images and situations

flash in a dash

—like the Cross Stations—

(in broken cathedrals unused,

unworshipped in:

an unspoken confession)

spoken in the tired mind of one tossing,

turning.

 

Then there are mornings, ah, mornings!

When sleep ends his reign, no matter the night,

or the frights

of the nights.

Sunlight rays pierce

all clouds dark and fierce,

even on overcast days.

Images, situations,

terrifying Cross Stations

still weave tales of

life

then death

then life again.

Evil cannot mix or spin

the goodness out of that story—

hope of day—a ray—during darkest night.

 

anthony forrest