By Lamplight
Raising the lamp high, Truth shines on shapes in the dark.
Some of the things of the night lay hidden
In the shadows, like insecticidal sin,
Roaching away from God’s arresting arc
Of light.
Still, the lamp reaches higher and higher—
Sin scurrying away from the beams of light—
Shining brighter and brighter.
We pause at losing the cover of night,
Our rights.
Why?
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