Night besieges the skyline's perfection,

Turning from red and orange,

To black and blue.

Similar to the transition of your skin-

Poisoned by the force of another,

Waiting 'til nightfall,

To bestow itself gingerly upon your pigmentation,

But not gingerly at all.

Fingers desperately groping for any source of comfort

Contradict the peaceful aura of the witching hour;

Serene and relating beauty

To the stars thrown carelessly,

Yet perfectly on a canvas of sky.

The takeover of innocence is performed,

A mortal sin in itself.

Tears form puddles of malnourished hope,

Never to be fed with hesitant luck.

Feared most are the hands that clench

To form a weapon with more obtained power

Than any form of love could ever provide.

But as fingers reach blindly for air,

And fists begin to form with ease,

The stars begin to disappear.

And you relate to the stars,

Questioning your faith of their lights;

The faith to life itself.

But deep in the heart of the sky,

Between stars and supernovas and everything between

Lies a place,

That words can't describe.

A place that dismisses fists and helpless eyes

And black and blue.

A place of illustrious clouds,

Forming a metaphor of splendor.

A place where the bathroom floor isn't your most common acquaintance.

Perfection.