Dying Day

From lands imbued with human lies
to realms unknown to human eye,
where the sycamores lay as barren
as a November day in gloom,
where darkening skies birth
quarter moons, kindling an eminent
s ense of doom as the crescent
scythe looms with sovereign rule,
a stoic man on a distant hill
stands and only once attempts to move,
gazing up then back to still,
as the only truth within this hidden space
unfolds under gradient stone.

Submit to the dying of the light,
to Fate and the coldness of night,
accept the dying of the light,
and go gentle this cold night...