Some days say:
There is no way that
The pinks will ever yield back
The sky to bright blues.
That the grays could
Ever share something so strong
With whatever orange
Originated
From that massive Gaseous
Floating hot palette
And yet it fades from
Layers of lavender to
pinhole yellow-whites
Bursting blues and reds
Stretching past our perception
Little explosions
far off in the space
We stop. They continue through
The night we don’t see
Until the bookends
Come again and break blacks and
Blues turn reds turn blues…
Some days say something
Simple like “Stardust make us
A million colors.”
About the Creator
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