We spun and spun beneath the dying sun,
Frantically dancing against the last rays,
Telling ourselves it's not over, not done,
But for each lie one eventually pays.
The moon came up, silver against the black,
Its light shone down upon our final dance,
A slow thing, to disguise two going back,
To ways we should have never dared to chance.
Yet as always time broke, no more stalling,
Our dance was finished, we could not deny,
Dragged down again to the depths and falling,
We awaited the sun to once more fly.
When next we meet, we'll dance again,
Counting down the hours, thirteen, twelve, ten.
YOU ARE READING
The End
PoetryThe mandatory angst poems. ~~~ Whoops. It appears to have accidentally turned into reverent nature poems. Oh, well.
