It is too late this evening to start
to write a sonnet worthy of this page
but I will make an effort from the heart
this impossible errand to assuage.
For in the constellation of these words
some meaning may be happily derived
Like augury transforms the flight of birds
into omens desperately contrived.
The tick-tock sun is setting on this day
and time is being eaten by the sky
ephemera is gently swept away
as goals erode into the by and by.
And so a failure I will aim to be
who can not claim this day a victory.
Painting by Alexandre-François Desportes