Home » Poems » Michael Benkhen » The Last Twilight

The Last Twilight

Twilight, oh beautiful twilight,
the foreboding before the dawn;
that such beauty can exist in such ill air-
is beyond me to understand,
as the first rays of light caress the darkness,
I cannot help but feel ashamed-
that I can't appreciate it.

I'm ashamed that I'm awake at this ungodly hour,
staring at the yonder sky when I ache for warm mattress cushions-
and a fluffy pillow comforting me;(maybe even a warm glass of milk)-
it all feels so far away, all I can do is gaze at the twilight.

I have to sit on a bench instead of a chair, hoping that someone will notice-
that I'm sitting here, that I'm not invisible, forsaken by the clouds above;
all I have is twilight now.
I see dawn approaching, I sat here all night; what else can I do but sit? I don't want to
sleep here-
and be judged. I don't sleep in the cold, I'm not an animal!
And I hope I never have to eat like one either.

Every day is getting colder, and the looks I get are especially frigid;(get out of my
sight! Disappear! We don't want you here!) they ignore my tears.
I don't want to sit here, I don't want to be invisible anymore!
I want to be a human being again.

I don't want to huddle for warmth-
on a bench, risking some authority will arrest me for loitering or beat me!
The world is not made for human beings or animals, it's made for possessions and wealth-
and somehow having neither is a crime and I sit in my first hours of despair wondering how
long my humanity will hold out, before I go feral?
So here I am enjoying the beautiful twilight and the incoming dawn,
never stayed up late enough or awoken early enough to see it before,
I see the sun's orange face emerge from the mask of shadows and-
begin to color the book's blank pages red, creating colors like no others-
I'd ever seen.

I weep with golden tears, having seen a painting that no museum could ever hold.
I try to renew my hope in what could be and what should be, trying not to think about what
I- no longer have as my stomach ache returns and the threat of hunger is too much for me
to hold, I retreat into my mind, imagining a warm room in which I tell a close personal
friend about a bright, glistening twilight.

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