SYNDROME

 

When the sun sets
We are like autumn leaves
Shedding in pale colours
In want of rest
Drained by existence
We moult of our emotions
Even in random modes
We are stringed
Into a count down
Like the roost
Of a cock.
Succumb to the knell
Of the dusky quell
We be like motes
Having been ruffled
settle
Like the drone
Having left the hive
Honey away in the quietude
That abounds .
And entranced
By the finery mellow that be.
This is the syndrome
Of the evening