Crepuscular Love

In the pockets of light left behind a waning sun, just before the night blankets over, there is a gap . . . an escape into eternal bliss.

Light and dark are pitched as dichotomies. But I can see they’re in love. Photo by Joshua Woroniecki on Unsplash

Perhaps, at every domain of your hospitality
I’ve been missing those thin flashes of reality,
a welcome mat that threads from deep within
of the darkest alleys where life would give-in.

And yet I find myself back on those lanes
where asphalt is thick with nostalgic names,
and the cul-de-sac of your neighbourhood dawns
as you hang low, always haunting my lawns.

The blinds don’t fall when your lights bleed in
the shafts of sepia thaw the burns of my sin
I let the warmth spread when you brighten my fear
but why do I crack when you hold me, oh dear?

Yet you twist deep colours of purple, sunglow
on crepuscular mattes of galactic blindflow
a curtain of the dust, old motes golden rain
just sift twilight darks, the brush on strain.

In your cascades I gasp, in your sheets I fold
the motes, now disturbed, witness ebb and hold
there are eyes in the blacks of the skies, all slack
they remain through the night at new dawn crack.

Alas, our meeting shall be halted for the night
when you leave my house, please turn down-right
as I embrace cold flavours of now-fading dark
oh Sun, won’t you come for our daylight spark?