There is a beauty in this evening,
That makes me want to write,
To dip my pen into the ink,
And give into the light,
Yet light turns into darkness,
A crimson sort of lust,
My paper cursed to hold it,
Poor writer, write I must.
There is a solace in this evening,
That seeps down from the sky,
All joy it turns to darkness,
Till the day the writer dies.
End
-TheAllenPoe
Paris Michael
P