At 2 a.m. obscurity arrives
to frost my winter windows when I sigh.
It comes to mock the hope which still survives
in distant summers where the sparrows fly.
A brevity of rain at 2:01
descends to earth, like passion drawn to sin.
The night regrets the absence of the sun
when cold obscurity has settled in.
A songless voice compels my soul to sing.
No, that’s a lie. Forget that; it’s a lie.
The voice is not compulsion; it’s a sting.
I choose my own response. I choose to cry.
And now I wonder what it was I heard.
Can beauty be so easily obscured?