Twilight
The roaming child wouldn’t let his sorrow show,
When fragments of watery blue sublimed into the afterglow.
He was told twilight stems from every pink toe,
That prints its infant lemon-green on reflection of a rainbow.
They say twilight is a net weaved by mayflies,
When the florescence of their transient lives defeats sunrise.
Then their wings shatter and sink into the ocean’s eyes,
That’s why there seems to be more stars than in the skies.
But for him twilight is a candle in a rosewood tray,
Where along branching fissures tears of wax wind their way.
During white nights he was blinded with pearly beams of ray,
That once through Ice age passions and hopes to relay.
In the canal of eventide his heart quietly bleeds,
Sitting on a vein of mussels that towards terminal leads.
Gold in the sand under his feet is daylight’s seeds,
Which will grow into a lucent curtain of flaming weeds.
