Crossposted to great_write_way

[arliss]

Breath

And then the sun slips down
below the cloak of grey the sky
has worn this day.

There's wonder in this gilded world
of promise, and the hope
gone missing, recent days.

This golden city, set in shining hills,
is mere illusion; in a single
exhalation the sun is gone

the world consigned to dullness
and the grey of everyday, dusk
and quickly, dark.

We huddle close to ground
for meagre warmth, the memory
of sun, and hope for dawn.