In these silent pressing hours,

Just before the growing dawn,

When darkness seems to be its strongest,

And our world trembles beneath ball that’s wrong,

Hope is but a moths wing fluttering by candlelight,

What can one do but quietly crumble,

For the dawn will never come.

Yet in this solemn darkness I can reach a hand to you,

And with my flickering moth’s wing imbue,

A glowing morsel of hope and joy,

Just promise me you’ll scatter this dew drop onto more,

Reflecting each small light contained with in us,

So our hope can grow anew,

In these silent pressing hours,

When the dawn seems not to come,

Stand with me and countless others,

As we remember with our growing light,

Together we will for a glowing orb connecting all,

Illuminate each darkened crevasse,

Scattering fear from our beloved home,

And become the dawn we so hope and wishes for.

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Authors note: In what seems to be an ever darkening world, I hope to interject a bit of light with this piece. Even as we see peace and hope shattered around us, remember we have a powerful ability to share our goodness. In these silent pressing hours, let us pass this message on.

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Michael is a husband, father, writer, poet, and aspiring author. He finds time to scribble down his thoughts in the dead of night, between ghosts and night owls. If you’d like to read more of his poetry follow the link here. Or to visit his full blog, ‘The Ink Owl’ click here.