The Earth That Turns Away

You blame the sun for going down each day,
then go to bed, close your eyes, and sleep,
not thinking of the earth that turns away.

You'd reach peaks, over clouds, and survey
great sights, if only the dark were not so deep.
You blame the sun for going down each day.

You toil and sacrifice for meager pay
and care for what you have and what you'll reap,
not thinking of the earth that turns away.

Friends and friendships die and loves won't stay,
your head hangs low, you hold your face and weep.
You blame the sun for going down each day.

Reflections show your youth replaced by gray,
and you surmise: buried with the past, to keep--
not thinking of the earth that turns away.

Twilight haunts and swallows each last ray.
The last sunset appears to you too steep.
You blame the sun for going down each day,
not thinking of the earth that turns away.







~~

As appearing at IBPC in June 2002, and later that year in The Writer's Hood.