The sun at its highest is brilliant and glaring,
It burns and it blinds and it batters.
Its pitiless beams, so invasive and baring,
reveal far too much when it matters.
The sun in its absence cannot be relied on,
It leaves gloom and steals warmth and hue.
It hides behind clouds or beyond the horizon,
and muffles or deadens the view.
A sunset, however, is beautifully blessed:
it warms and it soothes and it mellows.
It hides what is worst and draws out the best
--a romance of deep orange and yellows.
YOU ARE READING
On a Young Heart
PoetryA collection of my random poetic inspirations. Though they're not profound, I hope that everyone who reads them can find something special and meaningful in these words.
