When Day is Done

When Day is Done beveled

When Day is Done

Maybe it’s the poetry of rain
Or the echoes of the sound
From a passing distant train
Perhaps it lingers softly
In the hues of setting suns
Or maybe in the dawn
When night is done

Maybe it’s just poetry of pain
Or the visions that are found
On the heart that love has stained
Perhaps it lingers gently
When the ribbons come undone
When flowers find the light
Where there is none

Poets only scribe what’s in their veins
Dreams upon the mountain top
To wander fields of grain
Perhaps the rhyme just whispers
In the hues of setting suns
And lingers in the breeze
When day is done

Michael33

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