Dusk is a Fading Gold (Poetry)

I am tired
of ill-drawn things. The road

asks my half-closed curtains
if it is the blood-red dawn

& in response I place a candle
by the window. Sunset traces

a chalk-checkered line
on the sidewalk. When I step

across I leave my burning body
as it crumples into ash.

I hold its blackened hand
& pretend I never let go.