People are just as wonderful as sunsets,
if you truly let them be.
When I look at a sunset, I don’t find myself saying-
“Soften the orange a bit, on the right-hand corner!
And a bit of purple with a tinge of butter silk right on the center. Bleeding bubbly blues, and a bit of shiny sapphire gray...
well no! Never! I never do that!”

I don’t try to control a sunset.
But with an almost absolutely,
resounding awe,
I watch the complete entirety,
of that enormous beauty of that starry sober dome of the sky.

And as to how it truly unfolds itself,
slowly with enough time, with enough leisure,
and with perfect normalcy.

Nothing is permanently true, and nothing is built to last forever.
Or rather does it tend to be true?

Or is it as true as both nothingness and everything?

We bleed experience, words, emotions, belief, faith,
and trust-
like rocket balloons getting saucy fried,
on a hot silver solid pan.

Or as a tornado which remained stuck-
for a long, long, long ******* time,
under those frail, and foolish fuzzy spotting of our silent throats,
just to receive,
the very patronage-
of a self-colonized theory of a both virtue and vice.

And we so very innocuously try too hard,
to protect the entire ideating process of both self-control and balance.

It is like an acceptance,
like a ninja riding a tandem bi-cycle,
like an exactness, like a round thing, like it is happening.

But just beneath the very glassy shades of streaming waves of colors, which are made out of tears,
there lies the courage to accept,
which thrives upon the vibrancy of subtlety.

And, that sunset brings a shift in your state,
from this mundane reality to the magical impressionistic beauty,
of everything and anything, which is true.
Which has always been true...

That you see every evening, with awe, and wonder,
And with an eagerness to wait,
To ask yourself-" But then where?"

And you smile and sniffle for a moment,
and a voice whispers a solid sound of music,
And you look at the solemn gloom of numberless days,
As the staccato of memories fritters like secret stars,
Wishing to hearten a timid lamp,
And you are but Tired, You are tired as ****.

And, You wake up to hear-
"You are alive and you are here!"