Tawny day was turning violet, growing older
Right before my eyes.
It seemed as if it could be construed
As something lovely, a lovers' moment.
But before I could find a lover,
It ran away, crept away, flew away,
Whatever it is that happens when a precious thing
Goes from this place to another, newer, one.
I want to lie, without a worry, in the arms of
Sunset, having done that thing I set out to do
That morning. This morning. So many mornings.
So many mornings that I've had and lost.
Lost, or misplaced, in my rush to sundown.
In my hurry to rest I forget the reason I've come.
Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.
Need help? firstname.lastname@example.org