The sky is pink,
Then technicolour in a breathe,
Such beauty that stains the clouds in royal purple,
A few shades beyond belief above the melding yellow onto orange.

A thin band wraps around my wrist,
A uniform mountain by the side of winding indentations,
It lies there, an industrial raft in seas of fleeting hairs,
They flick under the elastic and lie down on the bumps of my wrist.

In a tenser moment,
It would hold, three fifths down from my crown,
A bundle of hair,
To keep all together in hurried happenings.