Sunsets are eminently confronting,

they're second to last page epics that ask:

'Were you a part of what went down?'

As entropic & inertial forces hash out the

unlived, concurrent with an insatiability

that pleads passion.

Trusting that your passion's retreating

with those pastels--that you could &

would die, but not just yet.

It's like the psychiatric intake of a patient

that's kept from creating, their ******

need the same as sunset's cry wolf

apocalypse.

It's like fighting to stay awake for

something indispensable to your being,

that whatever's underneath sunset must

match up.

Otherwise it'll feel like glimpsing

sleep-prompts while wearing synthetic

skin.

It is only surface succor--one should spit

out the passifier & eat grass!