Sunsets Strike Down on Me

A painter's fine hand must have dreamt this up,

with its vibrant colors and striking contrasts,

Ambers and golden streams bleed into one another,

to blushing pinks and darkening oranges.

This is not just an accident of gases in the air,

It was dreamt up by Beauty itself.

The fiery ball of gold- that warms the skin

and the heart- dips below the far off horizon,

Absencing itself from time once again,

Though it continues on somewhere else.

The fleeting moment of perfection is gone,

All that is left is the memory of what was,
Until tomorrow night and we are blessed again.