The pink and orange hues of a dying day
Captured and uniformed in such a way
That they lie in rows upon my floor
Bordered in long, thin shadows just like before.
Stretching and dimming as the hours pass
And its ethereal spectrum doesn't last
Half as long as it probably should
But I'm sure it'd stay longer, if only it could.
I sit and stare at dust in rays
Descending slowing during this dying day
Imagining it waltzing slowly to its grave
Better to dance and die with grace than to fight and die brave.