sometimes in the evenings the sun will linger
like a dying breath that would not let go,
tendrils of light would lance across in a last gasp,
yellows and oranges bowing, finally,
to violets and blues,
and the pinpricks of stars.
and there, upon the horizon,
like a lonesome warrior,
or a weary traveler,
the evening star would rise,
wished upon by everyone,
she sits her place,
as one by one the others come and pay obeisance,
then taking their place,
courtiers of the evening sky attending a queen.
at last she would leave,
sinking to sleep and dreams,
she retires to solitude
to hide the streaks of crystal tears
as one more evening passes
waiting in vain for her lost king,
knowing the futility of her vigil,
yet keeping on,
and on and on until forever.