Atop the hill, where still we witness suns
In dying throes, he stands, regarding not
A bruising sky, a fracture of ink blots,
But casting down his eyes to quiet towns.
As shadows lengthen, dragging out themselves
Across this swaying grass, the windows flare,
Defiant rage against a dying glare,
He wonders of what stories lights could tell.
In bedrooms, lying under duvet sheets,
Their nightly promises are made again,
And hidden there, behind the curtain frames,
The lonely ones, together, drift to sleep.
jakeanthonyscott 