The Dying of the Sun

Sitting out on the stoop one windy night,
Head was open to all the sounds and sights:
Dreamed of a day that should never come,
The day I witnessed the dying of the sun;

In my head squirmed images of despair,
To no worse reality could it ever compare:
Withering death all around my bare feet,
Darkness perpetual under an ominous silky sheet;

Cold echoing throughout all the living souls,
Whole world frozen like North and South Poles,
People huddled together, no matter race or creed,
The common warmth their dying, last need;

My eyes were the last ones to expire,
What I saw was the culmination of our desire,
A world that was truly meant to be:
A world that understood the need for equality;

Sittinq out on the stoop this windy night,
Emptied out my dream of the dying light,
Dreamed of an earth that could be done
And hoped it wouldn't need the dying of the sun.

Go on to The Girl

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