Endings are not always 

As peaceful as sunsets 

Nor sunsets are as salubrious, 

Serene and scenic as they seem. 

There is a demon in every sunset 

That pulls the sun away from me 

And gulps my blue ink,

Just leaving behind a drop of red

And my quivering quill repudiates 

To inscribe anything, 

For the red smells nothing less than 

The stabbed sun.

Endings are not always 

As poetic as sunsets

Nor sunsets are as metaphorical, 

Mellifluous and magical as they seem.

There is a cacophony in every sunset

That pulls all the melodies from my ears

And rip up all my rectos,

Just leaving behind a dried leaf

Where I can neither write about my sun

Nor sketch his face,

For my memories are fading away

With every inch he takes 

Towards the horizon. 

Endings are not always 

As inspiring as sunsets 

Nor every sunset wants 

Me to clean my tears 

For I know,

There is a sunset in me

That never lets me rise.