It’s too late to write this poem.
The night has gone on too long.
It’s too late to write this poem.
Everything has gone wrong.

Earlier, it looked to be a splendid
evening. Earlier, it appeared life
might blossom like a flower
at the side of the road.

The world was young and fresh.
You walked beside me in your dress.
Your lips curled up with a smile.
I had to look away after a while.

Now, I can’t see through this present
darkness. Now, I can’t breathe in
the smog choking our planet from
fires raging out of control.

It’s too late to write this poem.
I will never say what I mean.
It’s too late to write this poem.
Things are no longer what they seem.