The Early Last Post

At close distance sounds the bugle, melancholia conceived and born, notes eschewing warmth in the dewy shades of dawn. Of this sadness, numb and heavy, laden with ingots of lead, symbols of speechlessness for words that never were said. They hang black anvils in our minds, weighted notions that descend, dispense regret for time laid waste our sadly absent friend. We knew of his illustrious flame, commemorate the smiles he gave, and send our love ingenuously beyond the refuge of his grave. And ringing in our ears the early last post euphony, spreads sails of grief and lore as but for the Grace of God go we.