Towards
Towards the setting of the sun,
in the eye of the universe,
it lost the other one,
in a game of cards,
dealt by the future,
won by the past,
and spread out into a hand,
made up of the things that do not exist,
yet,
and so will themselves,
into a strange sort,
of existence,
just as the night,
once cold,
warmed to the idea of its death,
as if the light,
illuminated a desire,
as if time itself,
mourned the loss of its children,
to a randomness it can see,
and these are the things the moon sings,
as it swims through the sea,
towards the setting of the sun.