Those Wicked Memories

 The soft whispers

We hear at night

Are but teardrops falling.

The night sky is but a hollow covering,

A safe ground for those in mourning.

It is the time when little girls sing softly to themselves,

When boys worry about fathers in war.

It is a the time when women think about lost loves

And men about forgotten times.

The memories rush back,

The feeling overwhelm.

We all feel a certain tranquility

As if our hearts have been removed from our chests.