dusk is a fading gold v2 (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 side-

walk. When I step across,
I leave my burning

body as it crumples
into ash. I hold

its blackened hand
& pretend

I never let go.

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Author's Note: Pay attention to the line breaks. Link to the original. I was reading "the language" by Robert Creeley—he does it much better than I do.