The sun descends behind the lustrous clouds,
Darkness rises; I recall the pleasure.
Envious of the newly lucky crowds,
Bathed in wondrous light that they won’t treasure.
Night flies in, as stygian as a crow,
Until the stars set the night sky ablaze,
They’re beautiful in their own way, although
They can never compare to the sun’s rays.
At its darkest moment, the daylight breaks,
Shimmering beams upon the morning mist,
As they fracture through the light, they create
A tableau of a magnificent tryst.
You brighten my life, simply by being,
I’ll never tire of what I’m seeing.
If Keats and Poe had adopted a short bus stepchild....
sorry i couldn't help that. i think your desire to shape this really fucked you over. the images are great, if a little conventional.
if you like it the way it is then tell me to go fuck myself, but maybe just take the pictures you tried to string out of the theme and condense them down to as little as possible, along the way trying to forget the theme/title. then write with the product of that process in mind and no cares at all for what it ends up looking like.
word to the bird on "stygian", btw. it's such a nice word to look at, but so irritating to say when you're a north american. like "meme".
