Paintings of mist and songs of regret
always find an audience,
seeking, straining, to decipher
the whispers of the morning, dreams
that dissipate before the sun.
I can not tell what hides within
the shifting colors of my dawn,
but each brush stroke, every word,
assures me there are truths obscured,
secrets we misplaced last night.
Are those best forgotten, left
shapeless in the fog? The tunes
can still be hummed, those to which
we danced that yesterday, and each
daub of gray holds yet some color.
Stephen Brooke ©2016
Probably tried to hard to keep it to a form, but such exercises are worthwhile even if the poems aren't