the world is like a sunset when the sky is still gray

and it seems to me

that the stars have no chance of survival

when the clouds are gray. 

even the smell of rain seems sickening

when you've smelled it for too long 

there is an illusion, I can't breathe. 

but some clouds have turned to gold and red, 

splattered messily across a background of miserable fog, 

the air is once again raw and unconsumed by the world's grief.

I've yet again stepped outside with no shoes, 

the ground is a million needles of cold rock, 

they've told me I'll waste away if the cold touches my heart, 

but what does it matter when the sky is losing to a sunset,

what does it matter when the clouds are losing to a gold reflection of who you are. 

We could be anything or everything,

and perhaps, perhaps, 

there would still be a place for us in this gray, 

slightly gold, 

world.