Glance

Glance

It's a late Sunday afternoon
The light is streaming
Into a wide-windowed room
The light is dancing across it
Hitting the faint yellow walls
Which are lighter than butter
Yet darker than an old country roads dead grass
But before hitting the walls
The light rolls across the cold white marble floors
Every object it hits
Is seemed to be instantly
Sparkled with fairy dust
And is now appears to be magical
It's perfect
You're in a World of your own awe
But then the last touch of light twinkles in to your eye
Everything's gone
The magic's gone
The room has now faded to a dull ordinary room
But that twinkle stays in yourself forever
Yet only to form
One single tear
As you leave the darkened room.