Dawn’s slow entrance haunts indigo skies,
the wind her ardent herald. An instruction,
a coaxing whisper: “Lover, come to me…”
Thus gypsy souls succumb to her seduction,
yet, promise lightly given lightly lies
– as morning dawns, dawn’s promise fades to bone;
so longing now forgot, sojourners keen
to find themselves abandoned … lost … alone.
The sun’s harsh light exposes self-deception,
dissolves protective shadows from whereon
our foolish fancy urges us embrace
a haunting will-o-wisp such as the dawn.
Yet day dissolves to night, and night’s inception
heralds new promise for dawn’s iniquity:
for our eternal quest for love, for grace,
for purpose – and a little sanity.