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The blood-red seeps into the blue,
And drips across the sky.
Shining with life, and death
The sun that was born to die.
Every morning, the sun is born
To see the day go by,
It watches over us all,
And decorates every sky.
Each day our sun has moods,
From beating down to being shy,
As the evening draws on, the sun grows old,
She no longer flies so high.
In summer the sun lives longer
In winter it lives a lie,
Promising life, while all the time,
The sun was born to die.
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Sunsets.
When our weary day is nearly done,
And we observe the setting sun,
Where colors of God's pallet are arrayed,
What
by Edward Earl
The horizon awash with prisms of color,
An orgasm of brilliant hues;
Reds and blues give way to the other,
The azure
They merge together, the darkness and the light,
In a dance of colors, resulting in a cascade of sight.
With all the colors
All of this I see
Softest cotton cloud
dripping shades of crimson, violet, ochre
across ever distant blue
Brilliant golden rays
cast
Red is the Sun
I run up the sandy shore,
My day at the beach spent.
At the hilltop sits a young woman,
The book at
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Poetry: Sunsets
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