“In a real dark night of the soul it  is always three o’clock in the morning.”
– F. Scott Fitzgerald

sits, heavy set,
unmoving, creaking to and fro
blank stare fixed on the glow
of a tired candle burning in the
window sill of an empty room
in a far and high off corner
of a once full house that now
is filled with a breeze who blows
her doors wide open
like shocked, and howling mouths
whose blinded eyes
are filled with cobwebbed corners
dispersing the light of morning
into a soft glow
that warms the old walls
reminding Disappointment
to peel herself from the chair’s old frame
snub out the candle
and find a place, beneath the open sky,
to perch
until dawn gives way to dusk,
and dusk to the first star in
another dark night of the soul.

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