There is a beautiful sky that is shouting at me in its peculiar color.
The glowing fuchsia demands of my attention,
and it is not hard to stare as a strengthened gold enters.
Not glimmering, not shining, but maintaining its dignity with,
a single band of richness.
Disallowing itself in becoming a myriad,
Avowing to be instead a material,
of a rare kind of metal.

The falling sky is ruthless.
It demands liberation and love.
It empowers the humbled to become prideful.
It illustrates for me that it is not my enemy, nor my friend.
It is an understanding for the peace and quiet,
the rage and chaotic,
the demonic,
and the saintly.
Because it ceases subtlety,
and demands a cause for life,
I cannot help but feel a peculiar joy to match its peculiar color.