Final Communication Poem by Yen Cress

The rising sun displaces eastward night,
Dispensing cool, sweet shadows by its light,
Then bit by bit the molten gold of day
Grows, glowing, gleaming, sending hence the gray
Of dawn, this Monday in the month of May.

Why then this heavy burden, heart of mine?
And why these cataracts of living brine?
The day, the spring, warm everyone but me,
While veils of grief forbid my eyes to see,
And shrouds engulf me so I cannot flee.

And then the zenith comes, a hot-bright peak.
No shadow stretches, long and slim and sleek,
But crowds my feet in huddled grotesque form.
My secret, dismal clouds defy the warm
Designs of day, an unseen, private storm.

At length the light begins to fade and pass
Like morning glories wilting in the grass,
Each sunlight-tendril curling up its toes
To die while shrinking in the daylight's close.

Upon his grave, I lay a single rose.