by Brianna G. Harte
Folding a cool blanket over the land,
Lulling the walkers to sleep,
Not with cruelty does he act,
But with concern as his lover sees
Shorter winks during her time,
For no longer do they see rest
And desire it most.
As walkers shield themselves from temptation,
Mornings become bitter
Though ancestors have welcomed it with joy,
Greeting the Night’s rest with open arms.
Copyright © 2016 Brianna G Harte. All rights reserved.