Upon the start of twilight, dawn sits just
below horizon’s blanket, chafe with strife
due to the strict proximity of life
to death, however one man’s night is just
another man man’s day and one must adjust
to the entire knowledge that this life
the way it carries in men, will push strife
to cause imbalance that more so will thrust
men into midnight skies where their heart lies
where most will combust into a thousand
of stars that can’t be traced back to the cries
before the sun’s shadow retires and
calls for the darkest hour to arise
and return home, the place where men can’t stand
Petrarchan Sonnet: Iambic Pentameter with an ABBAABBA CDCDCD end rhyme
The Purge 