RoseAnn V. Shawiak
High atop earth, looking down, looking out, at the birth of
Dawning delicately, the night is drawing near, picking it's
way silently so no one may hear when it chooses to fall.
Idly awaiting many sounds that proceed it's coming, sharing
in the quietness of splendor.
Taking in hand, gentle pleas of understanding, forging ahead
of wisdom, needing no urging.
From out beyond depths of life everlasting, night comes and
silently spills it's presence.
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Comments about this poem (Spilling Night by RoseAnn V. Shawiak )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
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I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
William Ernest Henley
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