Mourning

Over, the poem; to rest in past it goes

Through my Mind as it Wakes

Past the bones of memories

Lies deep in the UnderMind at the base of the crown of Shame

As my thoughts spiral they alight on your ear

Softly calling your attention and singing my praise

Through you, they have history, substance, life!

The shadows lie black in the truth of the ending

Echoing with the truth of your sweet, sweet prose

Mourning the coming of the morning, as the poem, as it must always, ends.