The December Sun

Our last December sun is setting,

like a fading white candle,

a moribund twenty-five cents.

Am I tiring?

Do I strain your eyes?

The reflection you don't want to see? 

My wrinkles aren't enough,

not enough to hide

the young boy underneath.

You said you were hungry

so we left the dust,

we left the stone.

Down Hyde Street

on my motorbike,

riding at the swiftest speeds.

What can you see through your tears?

A bright blur,

blinding city lights.

Your extend your arms,

wings of a beautiful bird,

but feathers aren't enough to fly.

Author's Note

Brothers on a Hotel Bed - Death Cab for Cutie
Grace Cathedral Hill - The Decemberists

Reviews

[Nimbus Thread]

A delightful piece to read. There is just enough here to keep the reader wondering : will they make it? Like the line, "a moribund twenty-five cents."