The Falling Sun, The Edge of Night

Have you ever sat so still, just to watch the sun fall,
its colors spilling across the ocean’s edge?
Do you catch your breath in awe of its absolute,
feeling the ache tightening in your heart?
You stand in the last of its golden light,
as warmth lingers softly—then leaves.

The moon arises as the sun takes its exit and leaves,
absorbed, reflected—awaiting its beloved nightfall.
In the dark sky, the stars—the ones that are
sought after and wished upon—spread, giving light.
Dreams you’d never say out loud
whisper themselves forward, then drift to the edge,
as you sit in wonder, questioning your own heart,
allowing your soul to cry softly in lost absolute.

She walks alone, she walks in absolute.
Autumn arrives as summer does, and then summer leaves.
Unspoken words, unheard thoughts press against her heart,
the ground slick with rain as it falls.
Trapped within the walls of her own mind,
she steps forward—closer to the edge,
looking over, uncertain—there is no light.

But then, the sound of birds in early morning light—
streaks of gold filling the room, dust settling absolute.
She sits at the table, blank paper—pen at its edge,
blocking out all sound, until even silence leaves.
Memories long gone, thoughts begin to fall,
and upon the paper, her pen dances with the echoes of her heart.

Is it true… do people follow their hearts?
Do they dare pull their darkest thoughts into light?
Would they bring simple joy, refined love—bliss absolute?
She looks around—sad… her smile leaves,
for those who have forgotten life, lost beyond the edge.

The sweet scent of summer, flowers at the window’s edge,
drifts inside, filling the room—tugging at her heart.
Outside, trees wear red and yellow leaves,
a quiet solitude, a grayish-blue light.
"Leave me be," she whispers—O, ignorance absolute,
as walls grow higher and seasons fall.

Thoughts fall from her mind, walking slowly toward the edge.
The flashes of now and then feel absolute—playing with her heart.
Sable-colored skies settle in, leaving only one light—
the glow of the moon in this dark of night… until even she leaves.

A sestina, in form and feeling.