Delusions of Evening

Evening sets with self-delusion stirring the synapses with a steaming cup of coffee. A dimly lit oil lamp shrouded in Saffron casts the room in an amber hue where words meld like gold onto the page in an alchemic blaze. Morning rises, dispelling dreams out of every fold of darkness to a sterile whiteness that turning back such ingots into leaden blocks of stone I wake, both bleary eyed and blood shot, into this failed, pale bleak truth of morning John Tansey