She rises each day to a morning of pain.
And the night is long before she sleeps again.
She touches her face. She gently combs her hair.
And even behind laughter the pain is there.

Most pain we know dulls with time and creeps away.
Here a day, a week, a month, it doesn't stay.
Her distress suffers no such hope or comfort.
No light marks its end, no harbor, a safe port.

The ache of everyday things yields a moment
To a restless sleep filled with muted torment.
That peace seldom lingers till the open eye,
Knowing certain the morning of pain draws nigh.

This poem finds no fitting end, nor proper refrain.
For tomorrow's hope finds again the morning of pain.

©booray