Midnight Revelation

Sorrow is as real as the evening fog
drifting through my bedroom window.
Oh, I have known joy, more than once,
but not in solitary hours when a bitter wail
echoes as mournfully as a river foghorn.
And I have known the peacefulness
that a hobo feels with a hot cup
around a crowded fire, but peace 
diffuses in the morning dew, 
a memory purchased with pain.
What then can the heart believe:
that tears too grow old and shallow
until the sad life gives up empty?
Come what may, let me sing of the sun,
sparkling like jewels of blindingly blissful light.