The rising sun displaces eastward night, <br />Dispensing cool, sweet shadows by its light, <br />Then bit by bit the molten gold of day <br />Grows, glowing, gleaming, sending hence the gray <br />Of dawn, this Monday in the month of May. <br /> <br />Why then this heavy burden, heart of mine? <br />And why these cataracts of living brine? <br />The day, the spring, warm everyone but me, <br />While veils of grief forbid my eyes to see, <br />And shrouds engulf me so I cannot flee. <br /> <br />And then the zenith comes, a hot-bright peak. <br />No shadow stretches, long and slim and sleek, <br />But crowds my feet in huddled grotesque form. <br />My secret, dismal clouds defy the warm <br />Designs of day, an unseen, private storm. <br /> <br />At length the light begins to fade and pass <br />Like morning glories wilting in the grass, <br />Each sunlight-tendril curling up its toes <br />To die while shrinking in the daylight's close. <br /> <br />Upon his grave, I lay a single rose.<br /><br />Yen Cress<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/final-communication/
