What had this furious one won through mischievous deeds?
Solace.
A soliloquy of sorrow, borrowed blue, an intense void.
She appeared on a whim on a moonless night.
If
only
I’d
known
her.
Her hair, golden silk, shielding saddened eyes.
Trembling voice,
trembling hand.
It was just an act; no impending fate.
Once the tears and blood had dried
I tried to understand.
But by then, borrowed blue, it was much too late…
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do tell what haunts you in the night in search of solace? if night at all is haunted maybe a relm of the soul? nice words, leave bewilderment!
Thanks, Chasity.
Great questions. I think it’s about the unknown, or better still, the unknowable.