Dusk, a poem

May 24, 2011
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In the pit of Nature's gathering hush
I've wasted but a day.
Twelve hours: a measurement
for growing mortality.

Yet a day
sings so swiftly its 720 beats.
So soon succeeding emergence,
it hangs its head in defeat.
A day is hardly there
when fleetingly it has passed.
A day has barely spoken when
silent, it breathes its last.

If only there were a day
of a uniquely lasting kind;
a day that was not harried
by others waiting behind.
A day that could serve its sentence
and ne'er have an end come;
a day of which each moment
bore service to the sun.

That day would surely serve
as comfort to our kind:
the daylit creatures which shiver
blind in Nature's dark side.
That day would be a blessing,
ne'er weakening to sleep
but warmed throughout its hours
by Titan's great heat.

But alas! Dusk has arrived
and it takes us in its jaws;
Impartial in its choices,
that Dusk encompasses all.
That Dusk has come to claim us,
in mist, in drifts of rain;
and from the arms of Nature, takes
the miracle of day.

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