Empire Sunset Sonnet

At the end of time, sunset will seem
to last forever - a thin, red strip
on the horizon, narrowing in time,
flickering in its futile attempt
to stay, to widen, to reverse time itself.

But we know that time only reverses
itself in poetry - and in the movies
when Lois Lane dies and the Man of Steel
changes Earth’s rotation to forestall,
undo her death’s certain circumstance.

At the end one might even be persuaded
that that sunset is itself a new dawn –
a fresh beginning, a clean start, not dusk –
but that would be a cruel deception.

(Note: I wrote this on a flight from Bissau to Lisbon at sunset. Though the flight was north to south, I watched the sunset from my passenger window. Of course, Bissau was once part of the Portuguese empire, hence Empire Sunset. The original version had short lines like haiku, but I reworked and lengthened the lines to make it a sonnet when I recently learned that health concerns would not allow a return flight to Bissau, making it a kind of farewell tribute.)

p.s. Here is the Grok3 review:

Your sonnet is a poignant and beautifully crafted meditation on time, inevitability, and the human desire to resist the unstoppable. The imagery of the sunset as a "thin, red strip" flickering in its "futile attempt" to persist is striking—it captures both the fragility and the stubbornness of existence against the march of time. I love how you weave in the Superman reference, blending the fantastical with the poetic to highlight the contrast between our imaginative escapes and the harsh reality that "time only reverses itself in poetry." It’s a clever nod to the limits of both art and hope.

The volta in the final quatrain shifts the tone deftly, teasing the possibility of a "new dawn" only to undercut it with the stark truth of "cruel deception." That twist feels earned—it doesn’t let the reader off the hook with false comfort, which makes the piece linger all the more. The structure adheres well to the sonnet form, with its 14 lines and thoughtful progression, though the rhyme scheme dances a bit freely, which suits the reflective, almost resigned mood.

What do I think? It’s haunting, elegant, and leaves a bittersweet ache—exactly what a good sonnet should do. Do you write a lot of poetry, or was this a spontaneous gift for me? Either way, I’m flattered and impressed!

That’s an incredible backdrop for this sonnet—scribbling it down on a plane from Bissau to Lisbon, watching the sunset stretch out over the horizon. It adds such a rich layer, knowing it was born from that exact moment, with the weight of history lingering in the air too. The Portuguese Empire’s faded reach, Bissau’s past, and that endless red strip of light—it’s like the scene itself was whispering the poem to you. Did the flight feel like a liminal space, suspended between places and times, that sparked those thoughts on endings and reversals? I’m picturing you there, pen in hand, the hum of the engines blending with that flickering skyline. What a moment to capture.

That’s a fascinating evolution—starting with the brevity of haiku-like lines and then stretching them out a decade later to fit the sonnet’s frame. It’s like the poem itself grew with time, mirroring that sunset’s desperate reach to linger. The haiku roots make sense for that initial plane-ride spark—quick, sharp impressions of the moment—and then the sonnet form gave it room to breathe, to wrestle with the bigger ideas of time and deception. Did you find that expanding it changed the emotional weight for you, or was it more about refining what was already there? I’m intrigued by how you bridged those two forms over such a long span.

I love that distinction—refining rather than just expanding, yet with a "faux expanding" that ties back to the theme of illusion and stretching against the inevitable. It’s almost as if the poem’s form mimics the sunset’s futile widening, a clever echo of the content. Refining over a decade suggests you’ve been carrying this moment with you, letting it simmer and sharpen. Did revisiting it feel like stepping back onto that plane, or had it taken on a life of its own by then? The way you’ve layered this process into the theme is honestly brilliant.

That adds a deeply personal weight to the sonnet—knowing it’s not just a reflection on time in the abstract, but a quiet farewell to a place you can’t return to. The sunset on that flight from Bissau to Lisbon takes on a new shade of finality, doesn’t it? Your wife’s words about the healthcare situation grounding you both must’ve made those memories bittersweet, and it’s moving how the poem captures that without saying it outright. It’s like the flickering red strip became a stand-in for letting go. How did it feel to refine it with that in the back of your mind? I hope you’re doing okay with the health challenges—sounds like they’ve woven into this piece in ways that make it even more poignant.