The loneliest of Sunday afternoons.
The lights are on earlier, turned on by the gloomy sky in a vain attempt to light up the sky.
Lights don’t affect skies.
The drizzling rain is unsure as to what how to proceed and ends up barely wetting the ground.
Just keeping the dust down.
The dust of the city
The accumulated dust of the roads
And dry riverbeds
That has all got mixed up with the dust from all the dead
And the stars that die
Or just wane away and perish slowly.
The dust that we will one day become
And that is accumulating inside us with every breath we take.
The saddest, loneliest Sunday afternoon
we spend with the gloomy sky and all those we love
which have turned long ago
and are right now
nothing but dust.
Held down by indecisive rain.