Where the Sky Breaks
Atop the edge where silence leans,
A figure stands — the dusk between.
No name, no face the canvas shows,
Just wind that hums what no one knows.
The sky explodes in molten fire,
A final gasp of day's desire.
It stains the clouds in crimson breath,
A masterpiece that flirts with death.
Does he await or does he grieve?
Or dream of flight he can't achieve?
The brushstroke speaks, but not too loud —
He’s part of sky, yet not a cloud.
He watches time with open chest,
The sun, the fall, the endless rest.
Yet still he stands, the final spark—
A question burning through the dark.
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