Each day is long and takes a toll
on us all.
To mark the day’s end, the light
will leave us.
The burning reds and pounding purples, the deep, deep blues that fade into a patchy, inky, blackness.
The sky has been battered and burned day long.
This is not a sunset, the sky is beginning to bruise.
The bruised sky is beautiful to you and me. We oooh and ahh, coo to each other as we watch the sky bleed.
It spends its days blue, awaiting its fate. Beaten to submission by the rigours of an ever spinning world, the sky can only fade, its purple welts and red scratches aching, fade away into blue and black slumber.
Those days that never light up, remaining gray or fading to a sickening yellow at the edges? The day before must have been long, too long. Those are days the sky can’t face, too hurt to approach, the sky curls up to lick its wounds.
The dutiful sky, some days survives unstruck and blushes pink with pride. Those are the good days.
Sunrise is no better than sunset. It is someone else sky saying goodbye to yet another bloody long day.
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