We fade like shadows
cast once upon the midnight snow.
For no sun could produce
such artificial beauty alongside
the dark places where such
pretty young things break.
Lamplight moons will forever
illuminate fresh fallen white,
so soon to melt into the
sunken cold of wet ground.
And no willed conversation to a doomed man
could give the night a tangible thought of day.
We fade likes shadows cast prematurely,
without thought, once upon some midnight snow.
Soon to regret in the context of
some simple, sunrise, melting morning.