End of the Day

At the end of the day,

when that balmy reminder dusks below its cloudy clime,

and the cues of our past blaze starry holes into the coal absent high.

Did your breast beat honest ,

 when you finally married the night?

Or did it drum a bereaving bliss,

a falsified tune out strung?

Conformed and attuned for “any” glorified hour

while the day outwore the sun.

Or did it sing a more veracious verse,

one which seized your core?

Which played to the oppressed and stagnant mass

that “the day and hour are one”.

At the end of the day,

when that balmy reminder rests afar,

did your breast croon with content?

Did you believe in your burning stars?