day is done.
the night has come -
to swallow the heart of a dying sun. 

lights are out,
the reveries are about 
to take the shape of a loaded gun.

it takes a while - 
for a thing so vile -
to lock its aim on a mind on the run. 
but it finds a way, 
to fire away -
right before it works out 1 + 1. 

the birds at the window, 
come and bestow 
the occasional voice of reason;
for they know too well - 
than to let the mind dwell 
in the haunting silence of the season. 

at the end of the day,
the mind obeys - 
an imposter it deems ‘the chosen one’. 
day is done.
the night has come - 
to swallow the heart of a dying sun.