the world is like a sunset when the sky is still gray
and it seems to me
that the stars have no chance of survival
when the clouds are gray.
even the smell of rain seems sickening
when you've smelled it for too long
there is an illusion, I can't breathe.
but some clouds have turned to gold and red,
splattered messily across a background of miserable fog,
the air is once again raw and unconsumed by the world's grief.
I've yet again stepped outside with no shoes,
the ground is a million needles of cold rock,
they've told me I'll waste away if the cold touches my heart,
but what does it matter when the sky is losing to a sunset,
what does it matter when the clouds are losing to a gold reflection of who you are.
We could be anything or everything,
and perhaps, perhaps,
there would still be a place for us in this gray,
slightly gold,
world.