Something beautiful,
something grand
of an iridescent image,
rose colored morns
drifting through
turquoise colored nights,
fiery skyborne poets
suspended in space,
rousing from a deep sleep
in coals beneath their feet,
penning the skies with
fire in their eyes,
melodies in their souls,
ballads in their hearts,
writing love sonnets,
drifting in seas of sadness,
of inspiration, strength,
drinking in the splendor
of the clouds,
building beauty in the shapes,
caressing them with their hands,
their soft fingers
running along the surface,
making music in their colors,
announcing the forthcoming
mood of the moody skies,
the playground of the clouds,
the path of the winds,
the beauty of their seclusion,
the poetry in their movement,
a divine inspiration
in the eyes of the beholder,
a harbinger of peace
born from the night
and brought out into the day,
a prelude to
an elysian meditation.

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