The sun dips below the horizon, painting the world in melancholic hues,
while echoes of laughter dance eerily through empty streets.
Amidst the quiet, a clock ticks backward. Trying to unravel time,
yet all it captures is the soft sigh of a day well lived.
An old book lays open, its words rearranging, seasons inked into fading pages.
Journey across pathways lined with candle-lit memories,
past roaming thoughts of yesteryears softly nestled in twilight.
Has the familiar become foreign in these dimming lights?
Above, a bird circles — or is it a figment?
Silhouettes taunt you with whispers of places both foreign and known.
Are they destinations or merely reflections of dusk's delicate tragedy?