The morning's swearing wears away
At the sight of midday.
Midday's timekeeping and selfish pleasantries,
Is shoved at the deliberate onset
Of evening's pirouette.
Evening is a slow demon.
What was once in its husk
Shies from its predecessor;
Anxiously timing its rebirth;
Dawn only exacerbates.
Night shines black through the curtains,
Inside enclosed it is a blessing
As the day's lightning
Fades
And on comes
Peace.
Until the moon, ditching its promises,
Finds more to disappoint,
In the end.
I sometimes wonder if it'll ever come again.