Waning Poetic

Dusk

Finally: all is quiet in the world,
Blanketed by a deafening silence.
The day is old and weary,
And waves its final goodbye.
Neither a bang, nor a whimper,
But a tear for its passing.
The tangerine-reds linger,
clinging, clawing against futility,
Like a sticky, sweet syrup,
Refusing to climb down the throat.
Finally: the sun melts into the horizon,
Waning like the candle by the bedside,
Resisting the night's assault,
To keep from being snuffed, but for a moment.
I rest my head on my pillow,
At last embraced by quiet shadows.