Evening comes like a delusion
With dimly lit lamps of amber,
And just enough shadow, For
Any ghosts you want to step out of.
The day is over, right or wrong.
Nothing more is to be asked of you.
But to dream; The expectations
That things will be better tomorrow.
Only to wake to the bleak,
Bleary-eyed, onslaught of morning.
And its demand upon you
To walk, from dawn to dusk,
In lockstep with the ecliptic of the Sun.