Angela Grout, Author
|Posted by email@example.com on February 20, 2017 at 2:10 AM|
The train passes in the middle of the night to share the visions of the days we would like to forget.
My days are accounted for even those I forget because the Lord keeps watch over them as he proteccts and guides.
One day I locked my keys in my car, it was a simple act of forgetfulness, yet on the day I left the post office, April 15,1992 is a day I can never forget.
That man at the light gave me a terrible fright. I thought of the vunerability so many women face. I drove safely home not knowing the fate of another young girl that looked like me that night.
She not only died, but her mystery remained a terrifying thought of who would do such a thing. The why, the who, the what ifs, flooded so many. She was so beautiful, so young.
It was voilent, and uneccessary. Scarring her in the public eye. Her life left a mark that no one can erase.
The how she arrived in the woods is question simply to begin the justificaiton that there was a trace of someone, but who?
And the why. Why is the question that's been in everyone's face. Why her? Why then? Why? Why? Why?
Ignoring the rumors and finding the facts is simply something the officers faced and for so many years, the case remained unsolved. Cold. Didn't anyone even have a guess?
Wanting peace for the family, for the friends, for the town. Needing a piece for the case. I simply shed ink onto a page to allow some sort of grace. An answer could unfold. Maybe the metaphors might just find their rightful place.
The truth I know is that Jesus is real. His story was shared so all might hear that when something terrible is near, Mother Mary can hear.
With a gift of a prayer, a spirit can share. For spirits soar and often board a train in the middle of the night.
Categories: Penning at 3AM, Poetry, Author AM Grout Blog
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