The sunset sings its sorrowed song
Of shadows shared in shameful shacks;
How night will never know the name
Of travelers who leave not trail nor tracks –
The grass, it grows on ground and grave,
The weeds grow wild, where they will;
The sunset sings its sorrowed song,
And stuck, I stay here,
Static,
Standing
Still
In simple shadows, mid a moment torn
Between the pain and pleasure there imbued;
A testament of tightest reason shorn,
Where sun and rain their separate paths collude
The meagerness in many things mistook:
Polite palaver covered up with cant —
In simple shadows, nestled in this nook,
The missed creation of
A miscreant
Seldom said, and sorely saddled:
Aspirated, drawn and addled —
Farthings further than the fallows,
Hunted down in haunted hallows
Variegated, vain and vapid,
Running randomly and rapid,
Stalagmites of stone instead —
Secrets stored and seldom said
