The Sun leaves auburn shadows,
There's purple clouds in sight,
The evening fades down the skyline,
We lose the golden light.

Purple paints down the horizon,
The sun, not putting up a fight,
The evening's gone and this day is done,
And now it's time for night.

The sun goes onward, rising higher.
Our bright beacon, the balloon of fire.
And little do these worldlings see,
Afternoon will go, the night is soon to be.

That's because they don't want you to.
Because, if you did, they would be done for.
Nothing scares a wolf more
than 6 billion sheep, with razor sharp teeth.
Who can see through the false fleece
that the wolf has been hiding beneath
since before your mother's mother was born.

It's funny how it works,
Easy said, hard to do,
But He asks us for our trust...
What restrains you?

Is it the fear of the unknown?
The darkness of sin?
The pain of failure?
Or your demons within?

I really can't tell you,
How to take a leap of trust,
But if you want to succeed in life,
My friend, you simply must.

The heart of a writer is a battle ground,
they break for the sake of breaking
because even despair has its calms.
The hands of a writer are tar black,
patched up with band aids and
agonizing pain. The eyes of a writer
is a clear ocean view, mixed with
madness and sadness and a soul
somewhere there too. The mind of a
writer is a garden of flowers,
embracing pretty words and seeking
simple wonders. The soles of a writer
are on their own, they take them to
places they have  never been before,
then trip and fall, creating their next
                                                story line.
-Ka.Me.// @herbrokenpoetri on IG