They fall, with no premonition,
A quadrille’s final position,
A thousand suns, a single dial,
Quartz and ash o’er earth defile.
In serving thee, I bloomed a rose
To meet what expectation knows,
And contrariwise, as oft I did,
Trite and posthumously hid.
The monologue gives me its due.
They watch with eyes devoid of dew.
The darkness, wooden in its tone,
Ignores the crowd, as I’d have known,
And only darkness lingers on.
Twilights
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