Morning After Mourning

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...