Hours slip fast.
Give back
the gloaming light
(purple, pink, bright.)
No one knew it would be the last.
When Nyx descends
her raiment bends
a milky river of diamonds over our heads.
Such nights as these
are cathedrals in which we grieve.
Cry for childhood's end.
This is how we spend
our final moments all:
silent, looking up.
Our mouths fall
open in defeated awe.
No comments:
Post a Comment