Nobody knows about the pit that's been dug

The night was shining in the glass
Perhaps it was dreading extinction
She is beginning to know of nights
that bloom and creep through key holes
pools around her bed
even forgets to fade when mornings come early

Incredible as it may seem
she was carrying nights all dappled in folds
to work, to concerts and 9 o'clock dinners
Shrill chimes hung so gladly to the languid hours and lurking thoughts
that often came wafting amidst sounds and sights
Don't permit the thought, she would whisper silently
But knowing eyes grazed beneath her day

The library would remind her of the sparrow by the window
mornings brought
She and he had shared her mind and pleasant pastures
She had been this fool travelling to stories of tender men, airy castles,
heartbreaks, a white chapel and to freshly poured odes.
They had both been uplifted by whims and dreams.
The sparrow still flies and feeds her chicks.

Who knew cassock clad Bishops can roll out nights?
She thought they held hymns, mornings and minds
The night took them all
even the morning wind that floated in her soul
The faith that held an alter
preached to cramped silence,the Sunday heaves and silent seats
Resting on Madonna's breast is that beautiful baby boy
Even Mary had these nights but a saviour came by
Incredible as it may seem
there are tiny graves in the neighbouring cemetery
Nobody knows of a pit that's been dug.
Night's been resting in it.
The same night that pooled around her bed.