Orange peel sun.
Purple silhouette hills.
Blue cotton-candy skies.
Cut every which way by gold film.
The sun finally sinks
down onto the purple hills,
resting itself for the evening.
Once the night comes
I see the cynical nihilism.
It comes out too.
Nightmares grow,
like wild weeds.
I can hear their trilling.
The trilling has its own color.
Crows don't fly near it.
You feel it's brown
leathery texture rubbing
your inner-ear drums.
It's terrible.
Our only reaction
is to keep our eyes open.
Praying that the colors
of orange peels will come back.
It's warmth, lost in the evening
Only to come back again.
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