***
the particular, peculiar
purple bruised sadness of sunset
lies not in the light fleeing us,
but rather in whole hosts
(nations, tribes, families)
of men, we, turning, in concert,
daily away from it.
(and darkness, as we know,
is the time
for secrets, for shame, for
deeds best left hidden, for
theft, for stealth, for
private weeping, for
lonely bedtime sorrows.)
the particular, peculiar
blushing red joy of sunrise
is that of embarrassed gratitude
that when we have turned ’round again
it is still there to greet us,
at least for another day.
***
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This did not turn out like i had hoped. The ideas and imagery were much more concise and potent in my head, but upon further reflection it seems rather obvious and clumsy. A revision is in order, i feel. Anyone feel the same?
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