Mourning’s Morning

Is it dawn
on the first day
of the restive 
my strife?
Loss con flicks
my nose with
its malicious
little finger.
Intellect detects
the ended begun
tense
frail
abstract's analysis.
Summary resolution
tempts me: may 
I let sorrow 
pass through?
May this dawn
dusk
prior to an
other twelve
hour.