the setting sun brings darkness, but not black

for that color takes the unexamined soul,

however not from a lack,

While the absence is there, and mustn’t be denied,

a fullness resounds from a song that once cried

all that is left is an old drunken glow

the blackness has color with which it will grow

blossom again into this and to that,

changing form from conditions, a wearer of hats

we see ourselves in it and look for the clues,

the patterns, the stitches, the borders, the glue

alas, there is none to be found of this sort of thing,

no thought or opinion or comfort or hate,

just a long quiet trimmer as the darkness stares back,

from the borderless mirror,

singing a silent song of darkness and color, fullness and lack