The Glass Hand

It sure gets dark
on these frosty winter mornings.
So dark, you aren’t sure
where you are any more.
And the memories breed and distort
in that darkness,
forever more.

Like a shadow in a shadow
moving like dark lightning
the lostness
replays itself
time and again.
The days pass in stillness
but the nights are a ballet
of loneliness, pain
and regret.

They say that the darkenss
heralds the dawn
I’m not sure
if that’s true
any more.