The light fades,
Like a young man sitting in a rocking chair,
Slowly growing old,
Until his hair becomes as grey as the hills at dusk,
Peppered strands blowing between light and shadow,
A crinkled brow where darkness creeps,
Through wrinkles deep as canyons,
Banishing the laugh of day,
With the steady march of time,

Dusk sits heavy on the horizon,
Like an old man leans heavy on a cane,
Bony fingers curl like silhouettes of trees,
Bending black and broken against the brilliance of the setting sun,
Purple veins squirm along ashen hands,
Papery skin,
Like the wing of a bat,
Belongs only to the night,

It comes like the old man's heartbeat,
Evening blotting out day with faint, shaky strokes,
Blending dark hues with shimmering light,
Casting a blur over bold, defined daylight,
Until the last stroke,
That comes as unexpectedly as an old man dropping his boyhood marbles,

They go spinning off,
Tiny orbs of light reflecting the white moon,
All over the room.