Dying Night

A dying night.

Early morning, and dawn's speed is beat my mine.

 crickets chirping inconsolably, yearning not

for the moon to crash begrudgingly to the line

that marks the horizon, ending the elysian fields they sought.

Their cries evoke the memories of the night

I suppress so deep inside, swaddled as to not escape

The outskirts of moonlight,

Which, with fortune,  recede with day before I see

The moonlit shadows that gesture at,

 mockingly, with laughs that pester at,   

something acknowledged with downcast eyes:

A little girl of 8, shattered by waves

sweeping  her away from that infested motel;

From bites that covered her like blight;

From mother, ragged with drugs pumping through her veins.

For years to be tossed about in currents that left

her  scrapes un-kissed, and hands un-held.

 I see her dejected soul come to peace,

Embraced gently by the pastels of morning light and morning dew,

settling to the ground, legs fatigued, weakened

from the  ocean that swept her away.

 When the twinkling wisp of the sun

has climbed just millimeters,

The line between heaven and earth is shredded, ragged

With bursts of colors in their heavenly dance.

 bowing, these soft pastels clutch their twinkling counterparts,

bidding a hopeful farewell

until crickets call upon them again

and remind her, again,

of tomorrow.

Only in these moments

 I forget sometimes she was me;

Her life, her education, her success, her hope:

 My treasure received from the ocean floor.

A token of determined pain that

Has no better way to leave this place,

Than to be tossed into the eternal tomorrow

pursuing the tempting sun in all its fleeting grace.