easter [a poem]

and it will be that when I die
I'll remember
till then I wonder
how can it be what makes me cry
is not all very somber.
yellow is the daffodil emerging from the frost
translucent in the morning sun
evanescence lost.
this fleeting feeling once familiar
now forever thrown
I believe we're stars
we're light
but hell
to each his own.
the violent pink of the morning sun
same as them eyes of yours
it sets the tone that marks another
day passed inside doors.
and reminiscing of the days that we'd sleep hand in hand
and chin in neck and lips on cheek
ashes lost in sand.