Classic Poem

I am a dangerous animal now.
If my hand touches, you'll
be the pitch-dark unknown.

You bloom and fall
on the branch-end of existence,
nameless:

a vessel of retrospection, a light
in this opaque darkness
where eyes rim with tears.

All night I cry.
Unexpectedly, my weeping grows tornado force;
shakes the tower. If it permeates the stone,
it will be gold.

. . . my veiled bride.