The strange melancholy of yellow lights in the blue of dusk

A polished moon stares
Through the clouds like a
Badly disguised stage light. 
It watches me harshly and
Judges my thoughts on 
One shoulder of its balance 
Scale. My sadness is too …
Shallow. The scales hardly
Tipped. I take a rusty
Chipped coin as my payment
And hold onto the warmth
Of the many hands.

Quiet thoughts slip into 
The empty carpark I have been
Staring at, a ghostly hand into
Mine. I have waved to bid them 
Goodbye, the convoy of cars, warm 
As the family they are returning
To. Or so I’d like to imagine. Or so I
Hope. The strange melancholy 
Of yellow lights in the blue of dusk
And the silence of dead ground
And the bustling muffled voices
Filling the corridors with anger
And temporal things I cannot
Keep. I am losing things
Again.