Sonnet For An Unanswered Dream

Where is this rest that so eludes your heart
to beat a measured throb, until the slow
evening shadow creeps against the sill
and shades the window panes in midnight hues?
They match the brittle leaves of frosted death
crumbled in the untended bed below
where exhaustion falls in troubled sleep
of belaboured breath and fluttered pulse.
What is this if not rest? I dream an end
to these uncertain steps and failing hopes
that mar the polished finish of your smooth brow
and smudge the clarity of your once bright eyes;
now sullied with bruising blue and jaundiced grey,
their red lids puffed with unshed mourning.