The sky spilled colours that day
thin rivers of red and gold
sliding down the tired face of a concrete wall.
A rain not meant for weather,
but for souls brave enough
to be touched by wonder.
A man in a pressed black suit
hurried beneath his umbrella,
shielding himself from beauty
as if it were a threat.
His world was contracts, clocks,
and the ache of staying clean.
Colour to him was danger
a risk, a stain he might never wash away.
But a child stood just ahead,
arms wide,
heart wider,
catching the falling colours
as if they were blessings.
Her small body glowing
a candle lit by the rain.
She did not fear the mess.
She welcomed it.
And between them,
the paint kept falling,
choosing who it would touch
who would let it.
Some walk through the world
under umbrellas of caution.
Others lift their faces
and let life paint them
until they become the art
they were born to be.
Nov 15, 2025
Nov 15, 2025 at 2:27 AM UTC
The sky spilled colours that day
thin rivers of red and gold
sliding down the tired face of a concrete wall.
A rain not meant for weather,
but for souls brave enough
to be touched by wonder.
A man in a pressed black suit
hurried beneath his umbrella,
shielding himself from beauty
as if it were a threat.
His world was contracts, clocks,
and the ache of staying clean.
Colour to him was danger
a risk, a stain he might never wash away.
But a child stood just ahead,
arms wide,
heart wider,
catching the falling colours
as if they were blessings.
Her small body glowing
a candle lit by the rain.
She did not fear the mess.
She welcomed it.
And between them,
the paint kept falling,
choosing who it would touch
who would let it.
Some walk through the world
under umbrellas of caution.
Others lift their faces
and let life paint them
until they become the art
they were born to be.
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