The clouds are running in the sky, Trailing an icy white, Clothed in the skin of the dead. Folded in the cobalt blue, Lord they see rising through, Golden as heaven, Real as gold. Dropping to their knees, They cry, Falling to their chests, They await their wings to fly. Death is the final color In a sunrise. Some mix of terracotta and peach. Some burning palette of _let it be over, please._ Call it hours, Or call it years, The sun does heal wounds With the light it bears. It does save them. Fading into a dark evening, The only star they hope To never see again. God forgives their sins. Though he caused them with His Own hand. Matter it none. Death is the first color In a sunset, Then it’s all hope.