It was neither the vermilion of temples nor the crimson of blood yet it was bleeding all the same – the sky.
It would neither be explained in words nor captured in photographs – the sky.
It conspired to reveal its true form to only those who held canvas, brush and paint, those abundant with patience, those anachronistic to the Age of Instant Gratification – the sky.
It bled out the extinguished yesterdays, harbinger of a new dawn, menstruating away that which I do not need anymore – the sky.
It was magic in motions graceful, uncovering every colour unknown to me, one by one – the sky.
It was red, a new red – the sky: the motive power of my being, and my life began again.
It was nearly Christmas Day.
December 24, 2017