Although she wishes it were not true,
bedtime rarely means sleeping
Her pillowcase is often damp
with silent tears, solemn weeping
Whispering to Angels high,
in the quiet light of the moon,
she desperately seeks forgiveness,
morning coming far too soon
But, this morning, when she wakes,
ahh, hope has blossomed and bloomed!
So, tonight, just maybe, sleep will come,
no more penance, soul attuned
~art piece by my oldest daughter
