The Hour of Painted Skies

Late one afternoon the sizzling sun became a descending illusion
when the diffusion of his fiery fingers were immersed in the sea
I pleaded with my wistful melancholy mood not to claim control
of my sullen soul at the hour of painted skies; birth of gloaming

But roaming went my somber soul in a most unpredictable place
It saw my face in a mirror, searching for pathos. I yearned to feel
something real but couldn't, until frosted veils fell from my eyes
and I realized with crystal clarity; I hadn't been listening to my heart

I needed to start being a person who would not live entangled in lies,
who cries in remorse for the wrongs I'd done when my eyes were blind 
I had to be the kind of loyal friend who would never turn my back
on others, nor lack the courage to be valiant, and my faith restore

Forevermore, could I be forgiven for every sin I had ever committed?
When pitted against temptation, I vowed not to give in to the dark
A spark now glows in my heart. Is this the emotion called compassion?
If sympathy were a garment of fashion, I would wear it as my hallmark

emotionsfree verse

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