John R Tarter


The setting sun with a wispy veil
across her angry scarlet brow
is long since dipped into the swill,
filtering the muddle from the mix
wherever it might linger even now
to bring about a quiet in the still

when peering at the evening sky,
it is not easy to divide the heavens
from the lamplight down below,
with the twinkling of the stars
there to meld the evening's entry
to the flicker of the city's glow

beneath the expanse and devoid,
where there is a discard of light
and no indulging outburst of sound,
the voice of a man in midnight calm
whose whispered breath into the air
is heard by one with none around,
by just a whisper

John R Tarter


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