Dusk is a funny thing - an odd blank mask
That descends upon the Earth, summoning
Wisps of days long dead.  The drowning sun has
A strange way of fermenting a haze that
Brings a nostalgia.  A nostalgia of
Lush days with sweet air and a moon skirting
Strips of clouds.  Those sweet days are gone though.  What
Killed them?  Was it a traumatic moment,
Or something as banal as the loss of
Innocence due to time?  In the current
Haze of confusion it's impossible
To know.  Either way, the drowning sun casts
A comforting glow.  The wasted day draws
To a close and my melancholy grows.