Sunrise, Sunset

I have always preferred sunsets but lately long for the sunrise. Now I am left with faded memories of the dawn, the building light, the promise of almost and wishes. Strange that the same colors abide at birth or death. Crimson desire, purple solitude, russet and rose regret, girlish pink and baby boy blue, and the dull gray of aged ships. Age does not eliminate desire, it fans bittersweet embers with a breeze that wakes remembrance of wanting. Majestic colors haunt memory for even kings must die alone. Death's jester is a parody of purple audacity. The reds are the worst, sodden tears, the cowering, the crowded ruse of wasted, wanting, dreaming, mistaken starts. Sunrise is like a young lover concealed in a secret blush. Her soft arms are a shelter, a port for the war weary and the battle worn.