The first Sunday I knew emptiness, The day midnight opened its door, With me, this hollow has stayed, A symphony that has intermittently played. Unshielded I was for this, Halted it had me in my footsteps, I walk like a wounded hare, At me, grief has chosen to stare. You eased into the night, I lost hope’s light, My soul is despondent, I'm a tree with feeble boughs. Sunset memories cloud my chamber, They stealthy creep into my slumber, You said twilight has a voice, This I hear in turbulent rhythms. First Place Finish in Poetry Soup