Pastel Sadness

In a fatal blue fugue,
she bruises
the edge of an hour.

She swallows the
Evening's clear cries
of dark-dipping gulls

flung across the sunken wound
of Sunset.

Her brash toes dissolve through
the wrinkly-white
sibilance of quiet Tide;

her cloudy dress of Pastel Sadness
dragging carelessly behind.

A summer child is Twilight,
as overhead, Night begins to swim.

And in a rasp of
Rain-stung wind
she mutters something soft
and inarticulate
as she kicks away
the last cherry shadows
of an old rusty day.

Poetry by Soup in the Sand
Read 879 times
Written on 2014-08-19 at 12:32

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Eli The PoetBay support member heart!
I would have to agree.