The Golden Hour
The great ball of fire spills into a puddle
Only empty souls consider this subtle
A masterpiece, none other than God could achieve
For dreamers and poets to gladly receive
The fiery sphere starts to descend
The heat of the day begins to leaven
A miracle, extraordinarily feasible
God takes time out, to prepare his easel
Once over the hill, eye candy takes control
Mother Nature begins her drum roll
With every stroke, the sky becomes art
An exquisite sight, finish and start
The sun takes on assorted hues
Starting with yellows and ending with blues
The most magical color with miraculous power
Gold with a hint of red, known as the golden hour
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
