Streaks

  Streaks of orange,

perfectly laid on the dimming sky,

brushing out at the ends,

the magnificent paint brush that made this.

 

Then I realize,

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,"

I made this seem beautiful,

I am the artist of the eye.

 

The streaks move and they dim some more,

a washed out dull purple,

with orange still somewhere in

the horizon.

 

Time is money, they say,

but beauty is cheap, I tell you;

look up from everyday's mundane work,

the sky will take your breath away.

 

The magnificent is this priceless beauty,

look up,

let it all take you away.