Daylight taunts with flashes of brilliant clarity
but the sun, when it rises, is veiled with clouds
colored teasing purple and mocking gray.
Do they shroud a cold Apollo?
Or is this drab ersatz morning
prophecy and fulfillment all in one?
I long to blow away the brume
in long streamers of resurrection,
to fly on wings of light and color!
But I am fettered by cinereal chains
and freedom is drowned in a mist of lies.