The sky finds itself
in a quite a bind.
It flickers, flashes,
cracks, and moans.
Upset and ruthless, it
strikes the mind.
Over a morbid
mausoleum of bones.
The
sky then finds itself in ignorant bliss.
The
benevolent white clouds befriend it.
The
soaring sun gives to the sky it's warm, radiant kiss.
The
wind brushes the trees, pleasing the sky, swirling leaves of indigo and
viridian; most exquisite.
The sky now finds
itself incredibly cross.
The sun is departing,
but a new entity has began to ascend.
The sky is confused,
not knowing whether this is a gain or a loss.
But the stars begin to
twinkle, the moon sings its lunar lullaby, and the sky is assured that day has temporarily
met its end.
The
sky finds itself in sorrow upon morn.
The
once friendly white clouds are now dark and cryptic, crying with malaise.
The
sky calls to the sun, the sun does not acknowledge the frantic cries of the
sky; the sky is forlorn.
But
even through this daunting adversity, the sky keeps its faith, for the sky remembers
the sun and its immaculate rays.
