Soft pink sunset:
Rosy glow that says the day is over, More to come-- But darkness will come first. Perhaps there's beauty there, In the brilliance of glitter on black. Or perhaps the sky, the constellations, Are— will be, always were—shrouded by clouds. I want the stars, The moon, It all. I crave color, vibrance, A breathtaking "wow." I asked for burning red, Bloody orange, Violent magenta. Instead, I'm left with muted carnation, Muffled violet, The afterglow, a subtle truth: There's beauty in the middle, too.
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LizWriting, running, reading, and keeping it real along the way. Archives
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