Evening.

I wait for the evening to bleed away.

I wait for the evening to die,

in hope of being greeted with a more fruitful morning.

I wait for the fog to clear,

for colours to appear -

streaking the sky like they mean to impress.

I wait for night to envelop me

and steal me away to a land of dreams,

where maybe I'll be gracefully interred;

just for a little while.

I wait for you

like a lame child

waiting for medical care;

waiting for his parents' interventionist God to commit him to death

I wait for the evening to clear;

the air to settle,

and the morning to kick up the cobwebs,

which will soon re-form.

I'm waiting for the evening to inculcate in me some deep yearning

for a time when night-time means more than just shambling ghosts

and a longing to be refreshed.

I wait for the evening to leave,

not knowing that it lives within the dark of my soul;

morning, too.

I guess I'm waiting for a more pleasant happening to arrive,

and bring with it a routine with no items:

just a blank space,

like night.

I wait for the evening to give peace to the wind-blown,

although it will only heighten their coldness,

and leave me feeling like being warmed up might kill me,

or turn me into some creature wandering, lost, under the Sun.