Color of Morning

From my Dark Watcher series:

Where is the color of morning?
It has left me standing within it’s shadow.
No longer does it wake me with its warmth,
or touch my body with its heated fingers.
No sun’s smile, coaxing me to follow.

White dove that once sang to me so sweetly,
Now quietly perched, dressed in gray tatters.
Has time lapsed into eternal mourning,
To lie still upon deaf ears, nothing heard,
Will it also, one-day cease to matter?

Where is the morning dew that 
once kissed these dry parched lips?
Life’s replenishing moisture, that
lent color to the paleness of night.
What I would not give, but for a sip.

I once walked free amongst the flowers,
their buds opening to my caress.
Silken mounds willingly thrust forth,
to satisfy a knight’s craving hunger.
That my heart knew one, I must confess.

A sharpened thorn amongst the beauty,
its piercing sharpness cutting into flesh,
bringing forth a festering wound, death.

Where is the color of morning?
She resides in another’s arms, I’m told.

Kathleen M. Kohl/Levinski