Of Nocturnal Retreats

She often

Painted pictures of the night,

Choosing her words cautiously 

And colours 

With pride.

She was gifted,

She could read the colors

Even in the sojourn darkness,

The sun probably hid itself within her heart.

She was in love with the darkness,

The way it snuggled close

And let her find her own warmth

It let her be herself.

The bitter cold of those winter nights

Never bothered her

She only sang songs of yore,

And played her love 

On the keys of the piano

And wrote endless stories 

Of dark nights that kept her alive.