A Strange Sort of Something

There’s a strange sort of something in the air,
That suggests destructive beauty,
A feeling carried by the wind,
Strengthened by the setting sun in a milky puddle.
The fingers of the branches,
The song of the twilight,
Calling me ever nearer.
Looking up into the sky,
Clouded with my emotions,
There’s a strange sort of something there tonight.
A feeling that lasts only seconds,
Now happens to pass through my mind,
No stars are there above,
But all the beauty of the sky is captured in the air.
The last lights are dying,
The mist comes falling down,
One blink and its over,
And the strange sort of something becomes a strange sort of nothing.