"Sad stuff makes beautiful poetry, but it's not so pretty to live with." [-Merecat]
*For the Dear Diary Competition*
(I recommend anything beyond 'Tumbling Ash' for the rest is a mess of nonsense words that hold no character, no story and absently fill the page)


65. Darkening Days


The day brings different things.


It drags the sun in the morning,

bathing it in the gorgeous layers of tangerine and soft rose that decorate the sky,

and hangs it out to dry so it bobs in the breeze of the silver wind.


It positions the trees

from their bent slumber so their branches pattern black against the

gentle blue of the sky,

and it looks as if the leaves are stretching to touch the whisps of clouds that circulate

as if they have a destination.


It rings the school bell with malicious hands

and brings a wild stampede of Clarks school shoes and mud tracks to the corridors,

laughing at the children who throw paper balls

and intently watching those who stare out of glass as if it were their only distraction.


It steals lunch from boxes

and bounces basketballs, kicks footballs, shuffles past the blades

of grass that lie damp on the field.


It tampers with the colours of the sky,

bringing cold yellows that spread out like the warning of late afternoon

as if danger were to arise.


It plates up dinner and serves drinks,

ends work shifts and slowly draws the moon shimmering silver

from it's deep sleep.


It scatters the stars in handfuls,

missing jets that flash and pushing the sun into bed

much like most of the lights in houses.


It soaks the air in a warm violet glow,

and creates a screen of black that encases fields and the misty air outside

in an attempt to signal night has begun.


It taps the sun,

once again,

and lifts its head from the cotton-candy pillow that it lays on.


The day brings me,

from the morning to the night,

constantly lost in a distant haze.


-15th September 2015




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