To Marcy Howard

The clock ticks its way past twelve, to begin the witching hour,
The time of nightmares and the dark, when memories have power,
Many creatures come alive, within the darks protection,
Gone from sight well before, the daylight’s sure detection.
In the moving shadows, well within the darks embrace,
Live the skeletons that we hide, and the memories unerased,
The past and present become as one, heart and mind keep them alive,
And in the darkness no one can see, as those memories arrive.
Tears at night fall crimson red, and the dark turns them to blood,
As they mirror the pain inside, and their flow becomes a flood,
Though at night no movements seen, the shadows hold dark intent,
While all you have to hold, a dream;controls the hearts descent.
Yet if you grow accustomed, to living in the dark,
The light can make things clearer, yet never leave a mark,
It takes the combination, of both the dark and light,
To make the shadows clearer, and give the heart its sight.
    Only you.



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