the gloaming

The day gasps and wheezes, the sky turning colors, the air nearly out of breath. It knows it doesn't have long. The sun staggered about the sky, crowds and flocks clotted the streets and parks, a cold wind blew through to the bone. The world presses its weight upon carefree shoulders, just to listen for the pops and creaks. There is an ache that runs clean down the spine, sheers through each heel and drills its roots straight through the earth. There is a sadness that, once settled, seldom ever leaves again.

The gloaming folds its hands about the faithless world, holding everything cupped in that dark glow, that unearthly hush. The day leaves for other shores, that light moving over the skin of the restless sea, that bible moment gnawed on long after it ought to have been spat out. That cold touch abounds, past the sleepy soil and the lumbering wind. A chill that settles bets and places wagers against that which cannot be lost without disaster. The devil at the table, filling up on bread.

The stars are stirred in, the moon a shrunken shard. Little enough for bowl or ladle. This bloated, gloating moment hardly a morsel, let alone a meal. The bitter gift sets alone as all light leaves us, that feel that is reason's only purpose, that song that exists only to strain the rhyme. Prayers are spent, dust is settled. The shadows swallow everything so fast they sputter and choke. Smoke curls, following the path of all worldly things. The snake observes its tail with dull certain hunger. The blue mood hunkers down, keeping company, not minding the hour or the clock.