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