Rainbows, your proud entrance
after the gray has gone,
your triumphant arches reaching into the beyond,
the aegis upon your breast chasing the wind away,
into places beaten down by your combative play,
you are beauty molded from the tempest’s wrath
from the fury and the tantrums in the aftermath.
You brighten the skies with your vibrant color,
flaunting yourself up in the high as you hover.
You talk to the heavens with a golden tongue
as you climb up the ladder to the highest rung.
You stand your place as the currents flow by
with your legs entrenched in the busy sky,
a stubborn lady with a fragile beauty on display,
giving into the clouds when they come their way.
Dependent upon the sun, the tyrannical master,
the sultan of the skies, the benevolent bastard,
the God of earthly demolitions and swirling seas,
but the God who comes after from all the pleas,
and the giver of life and sustainer of the living,
the tempest’s moods and the subsequent forgiving,
rainbows in their glory, shining down from above
are the skies born in enmity that end up in love.

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Benjamin G. Sangalang
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