Mourning Dew

March 15, 2011
It sits, still
Not white, not gray, but the glistening translucent façade,
Of a tear, gliding gently down a soft cheek
It’s recent home, the blade, greenest green
Though not with envy
Echoing Rebirth, renewal

The blade shakes, rattling the gem of morning mist
It quivers, threatening its decent
Down, Down, Gone
Lost forever it would be
But alas, strength does prevail
The attraction is too great to let die
The web of smaller beads, holding dearly, tightly
Not willing to let go just yet

It is coming
It will come
The end
Down to the depths, or up to the sky
Nothing can stop it
The cool of morning is fleeting
Wanting, Wishing, Waiting





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