Sorrow

Sorrow is a pretty thing.
It lands like a snowflake
upon the waters of a lake
with the tenderness of a butterfly
approaching a mysterious rose.
A soft murmur caresses the night like wind,
luring secrets we heed not know.
Forget is a gift,
and memory is no more than a dancing shadow
beneath frost where colours swirl as one.
The sky is a violet cape
misused as a velvet curtain
that separates night and day.
There in between reveals a mask
that conceals the balance of dawn and dusk -
so fear each second as its last...

Sorrow is indeed a pretty thing;
and somewhere a nightingale starts to sing.

I admit I have a thing for nightingales.
They are night songstress so I suppose its mention implies dawn is near.