One must try hard,
not to see certain things:
the rust orange glow
of the setting sun,
a bloated scowling face
casting shadow stains
across ivory columns
and monuments
to former greatness.

Yet eyes are clouded
with enough fear
to believe it rises,
or that our belief
can make it rise again,
even as it visibly sinks
below the western horizon,
and shadows lengthen,
and darken.

A raw beauty exists
in these colors of fading light,
though I shudder to imagine
the long night that awaits,
and the things that
might fill the darkness
to terrify and ruin
a generation of children.

I hope not to witness that.
I hope the twilight lasts awhile,
but that I am asleep
before night
completely
falls.