Broken Dreams

What quick-pulsed unrest
sends your shadowed form
in silent flight from sleep
to search with dark eyes,
wide with dawn-dread storm,
the spirit-feinting strewn light?

What manner of faith
do you keep tonight
with practiced hands so slight
and tender? What shards,
broken (ah, yes) dreams,
lie clear in lunate, raised palms?

Each crystalline split tells
past times, spent schemes;
as turned, light edges touch,
catch color (lost images, all that calms).
Your moonlit tears now shine such.

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