In the moonless darkness of the soul, the men cry,

without a clue or an inkling why.

Voiceless are they, in the darkness of night,

longing for slumber, that is nowhere in sight.

What to do? This is not how men behave,

grappling and reaching for the rest that they crave.

Quickly swept away by their own waterfalls,

self-made currents that stifle their calls.

Hollow are the souls that harbor these men,

tear-stained trails mark where they have been.

If the moon does appear, will it shed some light?

For a vision renewed, restoration of sight.

By Sylvia Porter-Hall

 

Images:  Free Google Images