It's late
The night no longer has pleasantries to offer
The moon dissipating what the sun had bestowed unto man
Even the stars are weary
None in sight.
The incandescent silhouette of the moon, the only source of light.
The irony of existence
Nature at an impasse.
The darkness vying for attention;
Emerging from the shadows as an entity to be admired.
YOU ARE READING
A Translucent Amble.
PoetryA compilation of poems, written in an attempt to reach the evanescent destination of clarity. Or a whole lot of mumbo-jumbo written by a fraud in fear of being typecast as another mundane member of society.
