Of Dawn and Dusk

It’s getting late, she whispered,

as the still and quiet cold crept on toward morning,

growing ever later, yet earlier all at once.

A spark of wonder and confusion comes

at Irony’s secret wonders in paradox, 

working seamless and harmoniously entwined.


The ticking hands of time press on like locomotives,

never looking back, but knowing well from whence they came.

Simple, yellow lines guiding wheels away from home,

to wooded, winding paths and barren, burning plains, 

such that the hands of clocks work wonders in themselves.


A boy yearns to speed the present, yet a man to yield it,

a driver searches for the city, yet wants the road once idle.

Embrace the night, for there lies the miracle that all might have their hope.


The night, it grows later, yet the day begins anew again.

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a.griffiths57's picture

Of Dawn and Dusk:


The hands of a clock has harnessed time, so we are always impatient with time. Dusk and dawn never far between them, but a more natural clock. Your poem portrays you being torn between city life and a quieter life and more natural surroundings. In this poem I think you explain this well and your poem is a good read, I enjoyed reading your poem.




susiemayee's picture

 Nice, I enjoyed this!

 Nice, I enjoyed this!

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