Evening Poem by RoseAnn V. Shawiak

Parks at night have a very different view, seen in shadows
of black, white and gray.

Density of images are hard to recognize, everything seems
flattened out against the back drop of night.

Darkness pulled over, disallowing everything which walks
in front of these eyes.

Threadbare, evening sits alone, not knowing where to go
from here.

Slumber not falling upon a mind, raging wakefulness instead,
keeps it company.

Untiring beatitudes stretched beyond the length of stay
prepared by evening, awaiting yet, memories of death, never
waking to the new morning sun again.