September 02

October 17, 2024 Edisonwrites POETRY 0
A sorrowful night scene of a parent cradling a child on a dimly lit, empty street. In the distance, there is a church, its doors closed, with a faint .
A sorrowful night scene of a parent cradling a child on a dimly lit, empty street. In the distance, there is a church, its doors closed, with a faint .

A sorrowful night scene of a parent cradling a child on a dimly lit, empty street. In the distance, there is a church, its doors closed, with a faint .

 

September 02

Many years have passed,

The sound of trumpet and brass

It was like a call of solace.

So I pulled off the curtain;

They were worshippers.

They told me God was there,

They said it was the gathering of the saints.

So I watched them dance,

And I wanted to dance too.

 

 

Yesterday night,

I cradled my son through the silent streets,

Chasing the painted promises of a distant God..

I knew if I laid him down on the altar,

I would have him with me again.

So I rushed there at night,

Like the woman with the issue of blood.

Alas! ’Tis night, the guard clapped back:

“We can’t open the church for you to pray

Until when the saints are gathered.”

Tears fell like unanswered prayers,

As my son faded into the night,

On the solemn September 02..

 

0209024

 

About Edisonwrites 39 Articles
Michael Edison, known as “The Uncensored Writer,” is a fearless advocate who writes about issues that challenge humaneness, speaking to the core of what it means to be humane in an unjust world. A writer since his early teens, his dynamic pen dances between poetry, fiction, and non-fiction, always with a commitment to truth, justice, and undeniable compassion that draws readers closer to their own humanity.
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