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An Elegy for Summer

This is euphoria: the art of painstakingly purging blistered and withered melanin. This is apocalypse: the wait, waiting and waiting for the tear of vapours, of sweat and oil. Summer is judgement season, death and resurrection.
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Twilight

a gentle whisper of day’s end
across the horizon,
where sun-kissed gold meets
the deepening canoodle of indigo skies,

a moment suspended

between light and dark,
luminosity and obscurity,

as night shadows stretch,
draped in the cloak of dusk.
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