Even poets must get real.
Twilight, where we see the sun and the moon,
doesn’t last an eternity:
one is another reprieve;
the other, the loss of all breath.
One is dropping; the other flaunts its chill beauty.
I could die for such beauty;
I will have to go down,
like the sun, for such beauty.
Everything I love
must go down like the sun.
Reprieves, like pardons, grow scarce.
Finally, I know what I’m talking about;
I am lucid at last.
It doesn’t help
that the stars are glittering with hope.