An evening sometimes feels
Like grainy coarse sand,
It slips away just as gently
From an unwilling open hand.
Eternity seems like an unlikely place
For memories to dwell
They roll away slowly
Like dew drops on a shell.
Haunting and mysterious,
Are the colour's sounds,
In the strokes and swirls of art,
Symphonies can be found.
Motes of dust and floating feathers
And pollen and fizzled flames
Flimsy and whimsical and solid and there...
A dying day's remains.
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