Evening comes, with its forward thrust of light,
a punch of gold to throw us into the dark,
a weight of clouds to keep us holding tight
to whatever soothes, to whatever keeps the spark
of hope alive when all seems black or gray:
that emptiness when joy and sorrow leave
and all that's left lacks color, when decay
abounds and we've no strength; even to grieve
is more than we can manage, so we sit,
clutching that last shred of childhood dreams,
our eyes shut tight, one last small candle lit
and flickering, then sputtering... It seems
so long, this night that we endure --
and yet dawn will return: of that I'm sure.
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