Watching the Sun Going Down

Come; appease my sweet addiction

Of dusk’s hand across the west

For my story of affliction

And of love must pause to rest…

Oh, do not judge my humble staggering

Or the dismal songs I hear

For the sorrows of dreams broken

Are not quickly buried, dear

Come and run your mystic fingers

Through the marrow of my soul

For its mate chooses to linger

Where flesh and blood cannot console

I fix my gaze on molten glory

Gateway to a destiny

Where the postlude of earth’s story

Is a glorious mystery

© Janet Martin

The Sunday Whirl