Hugh Blackwood Cron

(Ayr, Scotland)

After Dark

In the still of the night
We can hear the silence
Of a thousand lost souls,
They wander in perpetual darkness,
With grieving, aching, rebelling hearts.
Their mystery being our nightmares,
Our fear from their shadows,
To the spirits of the dead,
The still of the night
Becomes the awakening dawn.

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