Somber

coat, in lowercase, with a conspicuous power,
a night befallen on a downtrodden failure,

cosmic misers deal lightly anything but cruel fate,
it’s midnight and for this sad being not yet late,
but like a bug dying under a cool and barren Sun,
by a misery he cannot understand, he is to be undone,

sand-filled palms sifting for skeletons like they were seashells,
their presence a bomb on the banks of tear-filled oceans,
the shores rank with spirits complicit in the grand scheme,
a wasteland of once-life terrible and obscene, a knife in the shape of a night.

the unfinished,
the unseen,
the waning being.