Colors

When did the sky
Become a canvas
To which some cosmic painter
Stood and threw his soul
And at times
Some paint.
And when did this painter
Become so scared
That his clouds became smoke
And the red
Of autumns falling leaves
Felt, perhaps, too red.
What was the point
when, this artist
Tossed aside his pastels
For a vibrance
A screaming clash of color until
All the world stood round and saw
In the flash and fire of a bomb
The subtle menace of a sunrise.