Autumn

How could Death be so beautiful? The setting Sun like the mother of all atomic blasts, turning deepest red and bleeding across the horizon into which it lowers itself, radiating all the sky pink, the ground paved with the nuclear yellow corpses of leaves fallen Earthward. So soon in the midnight blue heavens glow the countless yellow-white apparitions of long-dead stars.

So much colour to die by.

Yet we choose black.

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