This is dusk;
a time when darkness crawls down,
in the guise of a sneaking plague,
knocking light off but pardoning the moon.
I see silhouettes,
Some crooked, some limp;
Some groaning under roofs
that used to be a centre to groove.
The street is empty,
all have scampered home,
heeding warnings about the dangers
of roaming during dusk.
Tell dusk to stop grinning,
Silhouettes will become lively figures,
It takes just few knocks from dawn.