The Evening Cries

The evening cries,
But I don’t understand her;
Her voice is faint,
Yet echoes past the waves –

Magenta spreads
Where oft we would meander —
In murmurs soft,
Like whispers over graves

And as the purple
Sun sets in its glory,
I find that you
Are back, and on my mind

The evening cries,
Disconsolate with mourning:
As I, I think,
Might also be

Author: Beleaguered Servant

Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure.

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