The Dying Embers of Evening’s Light
 

I keep warm in the pocket of my heart
The picture of her that graces my wallet.
Either Love, or Lust, or Madness, it is wrong
Whatever name you’ve decided to call it.
There is a chill wind that resides in
The evening light’s falling;
The owls are out and the katydids are calling,
A duet with my soul of the same exact tune:
It’s not dark, but it will be soon.
Dusk is the heavy breath of gloom.
It’s not dark, yet…but it will be soon.

the_novacula