Near dark, when the day is almost over.
A limbo where restless creatures pull themselves from sun-warmed beds,
And tricksters deal in twilight's clover,
We yearning lovers sit clutching threads.
Existing out of that beloved sun,
The ground too warm to soak up torment - seeping -
from a soul whose purgatory has begun.
An un-mortal wound, still, weeping.
Poeyum 