Every picture of a sunset I've taken
never did justice to the radiance,
the radiance of the crimson hues,
streaked by glistening yellows.
The silhouettes of the songbirds
as they claimed the vast expanse,
the cotton-candy like pearly clouds,
against the raspberry sky.
The picture was merely a sentence,
while the sunset told a tale.
I'd climb a mountain to scream
and let the echo show you your worth,
weave you a morning melody
and watch its rhythm lose breath at the mention of you,
hear the calmness of the dark turn into melancholy,
only because you held the wonders of the cosmos in your palm.
For every time you look in the mirror,
or at yourself in a snapshot,
every tan, every mark, every smile
that made your soul conscious,
was no less than the little orbs of glory
that the night adorned,
the hollow peeking blueness
between every cloud,
or the rejuvenation brought
by the first rain of every year.
You, precious, are not a moment,
you are eternity.
