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Poetry: Sunsets

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.

Learn more about this author, Jo Woodnutt.
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