Mourning By Daylight

I cry a dry tear, For the sun seers the moisture, Laden, In my emotional sediment, Visible only to those, Who gaze during the light of day, I remain enamored, For the dubious yield, Conjured, speckled, In the thicket of moss, Shows a sign, An alarm, Ringing true, Of a discernible sort, I pay attention, Which is all I afford, To the parts of thine soul, Steeping underneath, That cling to the night, Blind to the surface, Paved in hope, Whittling, Grasping, The fresco, An inverted display, Donning nothing, perhaps, Except the well-drawn lines, Of its maker. (5/28/02)