There was no comfort

to be found this night

in the still quiet

although it often

enveloped her

like a blanket of stars


There was only

the continued slow

unraveling of her soul

of her psyche

laid bare

for no one to see


She realized

that she was

becoming the silence

her very being

melting into the

fabric of the night


Soon there would be

nothing left of her

except a ghostly

scent of lavender

the memory of piercing


and lovely poems

upon a shelf


© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved

photo credit: Scott Sawyer



Categories: Poetry

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