Complaining that the purple is too much;
Sinking into the sea, the sun is wet,
Contaminated by its liquid touch.
The empty stars illuminate the scene
As night descends and darkens as it does;
The orange has faded out of Halloween
And all is watered-down from what it was.
Tomorrow, not today, the sun will fill
And burn again into its watery grave;
The orange and purple of its pained plunge will
Once more wash over every winking wave.
For now, the night commands the silent sea
But we remember how the day will be.
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