A little melancholy for a cold winter's night

A time to mourn--
the last red dew-drops
clinging
as the leaves slowly shroud the ground;
the final crumbs
of a spent plate--
napkin crumpled,
rejected;
the last echoes of a masterpiece
dying into memory
silent.
The good is wrenched away.
The void is filled with pain.
hope hurts--
dreams dead--
anticipating dully the new day.

~ARH 10/23/08, rev. 1/18/09~