Self Painting

Do you feel colors,

The way I feel blue?

Not like sorrow,

It’s not even a mood.

More like the fresh shortly-after-day-rise sky,

When it’s blues are defined by hues

Of scattered clouds and a sunny view.

Sometimes I am gray.

No, not in the face,

And not like winter mournings.

Instead I feel the gradient fade

In a great big cumulus congestus,

With infinite shades that shape it into organic perfection.

Maybe tomorrow I will be green,

Not sick to my stomach like food poisoning.

Blossoming spring.

Green like the grass that tickles your feet,

The flowers we deem as weeds,

And even the trees who bloomed beautiful leaves.

Think of the sunset’s self painting skies,

When orange expands across space and time.

Then so gently cirrus etched with pink and purple light.

Until the warm colors vanish below the horizon,

Sucked below our line of sight, but sunrise to some guy.

Leading us to when the sun has no more vibrant light to shine upon our skin.

The pale blue skies transform into indigo right before our eyes.

Call it clock work or call it magic,

Every 28 days the full moon illuminates the night.

Waxing and waning,

Always watching us with the same side of her crater carved face,

Which has been shaped by creams and grays.

Never forget the 3 days of extreme to mere darkness,

When indigo turns into a black canvas

With only twinkling dots

Waning, new, waxing.

Are you colors or are you a self painting canvas?

Do you imagine the ones we can’t see with our shallow human eyes?

Because when my mind wanders, it floats away to

Galaxies stretching with miles of stars

No man could ever walk.

And if he could, he wouldn’t be able to bare the beauty of

Never ending creativity bursting from

never ending cosmic booms.

Every supernova is artistry added to an ever expanding page.

No two star deaths are the same,

Each beautifully tragic in its own way.