I won't refrain from writing,
And other such litotes,
The sky is hardly dim,
But golden haze that bleeds into a lilac glow.

The trees are far from withered,
But instead a lively sight,
I scarcely consider this a shame,
Instead a weighty image of His might.

Late night trains,
Carriage swaying to the beats of the night,
Quiet humming rising up from the carpet below,
And I sit sunk down to the back of my seat,
Legs tired,
Straight hopping,
Now limp and repeat:
Legs tired,
And we lurch to a stop.