A drop of fire

In the West

A glowing ember

Projecting a golden aura

Into the surrounding sky.

A flaming orb

Nestled in a pillow of clouds

In a bed of downy blue mist.

It slips behind a cloud

Only to reveal itself again.

It is no night nor day,

When the ember takes sanctuary

Behind distant, hazy, hills.

It is neither dawn, nor dusk,

When the purest gold, ever found, flecks the sky,

It is between time and time

When it sinks beneath the clouds

The earth is standing still

Yet whirring around at a rapid pace

And on the earth

Nothing moves, save the golden orb

Going,

Going

Gone