Sunrise, Sunset Poem by Barry Middleton

I have always preferred sunsets
but lately long for the sunrise.
Now I am left with faded memories
of the dawn, the building light,
the promise of almost and wishes.
Strange that the same colors abide
at birth or death.
Crimson desire, purple solitude,
russet and rose regret,
girlish pink and baby boy blue,
and the dull gray of aged ships.
Age does not eliminate desire,
it fans bittersweet embers with a breeze
that wakes remembrance of wanting.
Majestic colors haunt memory
for even kings must die alone.
Death's jester is a parody
of purple audacity.
The reds are the worst,
sodden tears, the cowering,
the crowded ruse of wasted,
wanting, dreaming, mistaken starts.
Sunrise is like a young lover
concealed in a secret blush.
Her soft arms are a shelter,
a port for the war weary
and the battle worn.