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
