Sorrow calling, shining and unsheathed: when dreams die frozen like a rose that withers in a Dead Mans Float.

Sorrow spilling, untrimmed and weary of a hundred blacker midnights: where deep-hearted voices are scorned to speak and the cruel standby while I bleed but a while.

Sorrow doubted, shady like the night: rolled up on one side scented with the pure dew of a thousand red laced eyes.

Sorrow changing, face down in silver laces three: while death tenderly brags in consideration for chance I ever come back as nature's messenger

I can not

Console the truthful
i can not

Shade sorrow's course.