The Dying Day

The dying day bleeds
pink across the bruised sky
of another winter sunset.

I am tired of writing
the same poem every day.
Mostly, I am just tired.

And the black smoke
of the furnace curls upward
to where it becomes the night.

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About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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2 Responses to The Dying Day

  1. Marya says:

    You may be tired, Ray, but it doesn’t show in your writing 🙂

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