I am the daughter of the night,
And the lover of the sun.
I am the holder of light,
And sins have I none.
They call me upon waves,
And praise me with grace.
Call me "beauty,"
But then notice my race.
Could the kindness that I've witnessed,
Could it have left without a trace?
YOU ARE READING
Growing Pains
PoetryThe cool metal ran along their hand like a blanket of snow; cold, light, blank. To think that such a blade could end something so precious - so beautiful, within seconds. How could someone do so with no hesitation? Perhaps it is the thought of reli...
