A Syrian Storm


Sorrow seconds silently steed,
For the twilight of the night
Brings a squall that will make her bleed

Something stirring, a blight, a disease
In the midnight moonlight,
a fright hits her like no other frostbite

The rage fills her up indeed,
hitting her hard, altering her creed
Throwing her arms up she prays, she pleads,
"Dear God! please, please, please!
Bring my son back to me."

As she lays down gently and with grace,
tethered tears stream down her face
She rests her eyes and sees a light,
Knowing now that everything will be alright.

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