The sun setting paints the feathered clouds a molten gold,
To the west the sky is fire and to the east its ashen gray and cold,
A shard of me understands it's always been thus, a rift as ruthless as it is old,
Yet to find the bridge and cross to truth is something most will never know,
A shine, a darkness, a shadow alone between crossed blades that cut to bone,
The question soft as a feather and the answer a grim red stone,
Sometimes though I look in a mirror and reap what you've sown,
As much as I love this I hate you so.