My heart could be filled
But truth be told …
My days are numbered here.
This disease is terminal.
The doctors don’t know what to do.
“Well,” he says as he raps spindly hands
“You can’t stay forever in the land of the damned.”
Indeed Father Time.
It appears I’ve been diagnosed with life.
I can’t stop my feet from wandering
Or my mind from pandering
The sweet effects of a sunset over the sea.
I suddenly, it seems, have things
I need to be
Rather than this old burnt out bag of flesh
And crumbling calcium deposits collected for me.
So tell me dear, tell me love
You know our days are numbered here …
I love the moment of evening
When the day clings with increasing desperation
Painting the sky in smoky pinks and hazy grays
With a bleary brush of dying days.
Perhaps it says much about me
That I would prefer to watch
The slow extinguish of the day’s flame
Than the brilliant lighting
After the darkest hours.
How can it be
That someone comes to love
The descent into night,
So much more than the rescue
From seemingly endless blight?
Maybe there’s no fear of the dark
When the stars are so clear
And a million galaxies streak across the sky
In all brilliant colors only visible in those moments
After the day has died.
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