Dusk, it’s said, is a quiet type of chaos
one that seeps into the flesh, achingly sweet
with moments of what could almost be pathos,
I stop and savor, can almost hear its beat—
the sky blushes and leaps forward and across,
I sought to follow, journey through its dark heat,
I care not for despair, for shadows and loss,
for they will soon withdraw with opposing feet.
And now hues melt in waters, come, let them be,
I’ve drunk from its cup, it’s more cheerful than tea;
what delectable charm it has put on me?
Photo credits: Pinterest
Grace hosts at dVerse and invites us to try a new poetic form known
as “The Eleventh Power.” Come join us! ❤️
Posted for Poetry Form: The Eleventh Power @dVerse Poets Pub