On a languid summer afternoon,

I sit as the waning sun rolls by.

Six o'clock, an amber soul

seeping through Earth's veins.

Slow as molasses and as full as the sea--

a feeling like sadness in the distance is calling.

Gentle piano notes, torn at the seams,

echo between the walls--

and I dance

while like tears, they pour over me.

Must the seasons be so sentimental,

stringing memories against the sky;

I struggle to find any words that match

as the light begins to fade.

I picture myself tomorrow,

thinking of all that's gone,

and gazing through the window

as the waning sun rolls by.