Sundown Smokey Summer

Aug. 17, 2018

The pinks and golds do kill me
but not in the way you’d think, not alike
the air we breath,
which I do not think of;
but in the way my heart skips beat
at the thought of roses and sunflowers
in a single bouquet. I pray,
at death, I am loved as much
as the work of art laid before our eyes
by the blood red sun still hanging in the western sky-
a fauvist, indeed.