sunset

Between the prophecies of morning and twilight's revelations of wonder, the sky is ripped asunder.

The moon lurks in the clouds, waiting, as if to plunder the dusk of its lilac iridescence,

and in the bright-tentacled sunset we imagine a presence full of the fury of lost innocence.

What we find within strange whorls of drifting flame, brief patterns mauling winds deform and maim, we recognize at once, but cannot name.

-Sunset Michael R. Burch