Sunsets are precious

by Ralkkai

The crashing waves,
the sounds of change.

Cymbals explode and
the music changes

Jazz in May becomes
Angels in August
and I become new, reborn

into
sounds, smells, sights.

Sunsets are precious
and not liked by some.

The singing of a thousands souls
linger
as Sunday singes sorrowful skies.

What does the moon look light
from London?

I wonder

as I plan to paint peacefulness
penetrating perfection.

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