Crimson Sky

Is your sky still crimson?
Does Manila draw a lonely Azalea
in your eyes again?
Don't hide your brush anymore.
It is not meant to be
in the pavement of your thoughts.
Make the strokes that you want;
be a surrealist or an expressionist
as long as you won't forget
about the man that is
standing by the bridge
embellished with my foolish poetry.

The broken lines I mimicked
when skies burned like Sunflowers
on a mid-summer field
are massacred by
an expressionless sophistication
'neath January and
woebegone canvases.

Perhaps, it's a palette,
a pastel-colored symphony,
or an old poem
with untamed words and imagery
that makes the horizon
a Phoenix with thousand flames.

Paint my poetry
in placid hues again,
watch it die in February...
and harbor promises
when twilight becomes
a portrait of your footsteps.

Be the spectator
when our art burns in the skies.

Would you still mind
if your sky is still crimson?