When the sun sets on a
Hazy evening
The sky is red.
The sky is red,
Not because violet is lost in the dusk
Of a thickening atmosphere--
Absorbed
By the translucent drapes of a setting sun.
The sky is red,
Not because the frequency of light
That penetrates the evening sky
Is six-tenths a micrometer.
The sky is red,
Not because our cones are triggered
To inform our minds
Of crimson waves.
The sky is red,
Not to calm the frigid hues of
Blue blossoms,
Nor pronounce the burgundy of
Burning bushes.
The sky is red,
For it is marred by the blood of those
UNRIGHTEOUSLY
Slain.
The sky is red,
For it sheds sanguineous tears
To mourn the lives lost to petty
MEGALOMANIA.
The sky is red,
For it is punctured by the
Uplifted bayonets of a triumphant
Regiment--
Lacerating the benign sheath that
PROTECTS
The Earth.
The sky is red,
For the raised bayonets smear their
PROUD
Blood across the world's shielding dome
In victory.
The sky is red,
For it ovulates Mother Nature's final egg
To leave the world barren and forgotten--
A premature
MENOPAUSE,
Unable to conceive.
Once prolific,
Now sterile.
The sky is red,
For life beneath it is
DEAD.
