The Harshness of Night
by Michael Doyle

The modern world is often tragic.
It's lost more than a little magic.
A madman's bullet found its conversion.
Gone now are the days of extroversion.

Drinking more water to bring its ease,
We realize that the world is living disease.
Politics under the mark of Cain,
The eternal night cries alone, and in vain.

It may be too late to heed the warning
As the harshness of night becomes its mourning.
She had been glib in all she said
Until a would-be assassin's bullet found her head.

In a world of hate, we cannot outrun fear.
Is it too late to ease the bleeding tear?
The survivors carry the conversation.
Falling to our knees, we pray for our nation.

There is angry evil traveling on Main Street.
No one has a smile left to greet.
What's left is the cracked cognition,
Just below the surface is a plea for recognition.

It may be too late to heed the warning
As the harshness of night becomes its mourning.
She had been glib in all she said
Until a would-be assassin's bullet found her head.

Looking back, there would become a future
In which sentence fragments were to nurture.
Stories of a happier time that felt sublime,
Now it's disappeared as if an emotional crime.

Lost in the substrate of a hurt world's grind,
She has lost her words but not her mind.
Bursts of words travel in images that cost,
So much more than has been forever lost.

It may be too late to heed the warning
As the harshness of night becomes its mourning.
She had been glib in all she said
Until a would-be assassin's bullet found her head.

To a warrior, adversity is a relative thing.
Never mind the confusion or the trouble it brings.
Fake truth can be unsociable like messages from a box.
It can feel lonely and under too many locks.

In an elephant's graveyard, there's a forgotten memory.
It's a struggled plight to remain in the family.
Yet, in a flurry of word bursts across the pages,
This life's mystery might be one for the slang of sages.

It may be too late to heed the warning
As the harshness of night becomes its mourning.
She had been glib in all she said
Until a would-be assassin's bullet found her head.

(c) July 21, 2026   Michael Doyle
All Rights Reserved

Dedicated to Gabby Giffords