A Poem by Sabera

A quiet appeal, whispering, waking,
Attempting to relieve the self-inflicted aching,
Heavy with sleeplessness, I reject any reckoning,
Of my conscience, beckoning, beckoning, beckoning.

But the attempts of the devil to leave me immobilized
Are weaker than the guilt that has me hypnotized,
And in that split second, I open my eyes.
My soul kindles a flame, summons me to follow,
Says, “Leave not the grieving for tomorrow.”

The blanket of stars, ever luminescent, I am brought under,
By the destroyer of pleasures that wakes me from slumber.
I breathe steadily, my heart beats readily,
As midnight’s brevity tests my integrity.

Lips trembling, thoughts assembling, as I stand before my Lord,
Evil disheveled; the pain resembles the nature of the blessed words.
The chambers of my heart beat to a quickening pace,
As tears of remorse reverse my mistakes.
The somber sorrow dissolves the pain;
I feel it closer, closer than my jugular vein.

Weakness overcomes me when the sun begins to rise,
Gravity pulls me down; in the place of prostration, I lie.
The sky is brightening, the weather, warming.
Serenity befalls on the morning after mourning.