orange
sleepy fire,
winter sunsets...
There... days are short,
and nights
are long.
Every dream I haven't had,
hides under the frost bitten grass.
But they to are covered
by the haunting
harmony of sublime
winter light.
Echoing forms with gold,
casting a warm path of luminance,
over the chilled stone.
The chilled stone of
the church
the graveyard.
Its hard to see dark
as pure beauty.
But nature will always
try to save
vacuums of hope.
The graveyard in a winter sunset
is laced in the sun's burning love.