Don't think. Pen and Ink.

The naked tree branches cast shadowy silhouettes against the sky.
A chaos of dark lines stand, firmly marking their place.
The hard ground beneath is where all men lie... 
Looking up, Thinking maybe each star is a freckle on God's face.
 
Damp December air is as cold and heavy as the heart.
It is the blanket that both swaddled the infant and smothered the lonely.
Division of right and wrong growing hazy in the dark.
For this "silent night" is the most unholy.
 
-Unfinished poem, but I like to post writing when it is still raw and then come back to it later. Hope you enjoy. Thoughts anyone?
-Hannah