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.