This morning, the sky was gray,

Like the underwing of a lark.

It’s a mellow sort of gray,

One that hints at coming rain

Or an impenetrable fog.

It’s a light color,

Bringing the mixed feelings

Of comfort and doom.

The sky this morning looks odd;

I’m not used to being up so early.

It looks like a painting,

Watercolors splashed over boring canvas.

It’s pretty, but somehow reminds me of death.

‘Tis an ungodly hour, that the sun is just waking up.

I love to watch the sun rise,

Coloring the sky with a timid blush,

Adding fire to the dismal clouds.

It’s poetic. Lovely. Apocalyptic.

The sun crests the horizon

And all my worries are washed away,

Even as the sky is tinged blood red

And the clouds are heavy blots of smoke.

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