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…
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.