every once in a while,
the sky gets tired
and hides its face behind
hands of light gray clouds.
it sighs in quiet thunder,
and lets tears of blue
slip loose, trailing softly down
water-stained buildings.
the bright sun and silent moon
dim quietly until
they are but a memory,
in this never ending haze.
but even the weariest of skies
does not remain sorrowful,
soon enough
the world sparkles once more.
i long for the times
of snow angels and sledding.
how free we were,
way back when.
we slipped down the hill,
narrowly avoiding several trees,
and mr. wilkins,
i live for moments
when the sky gathers
my broken body
tenderly within its gentle embrace
when ebony clouds entwine
with shining, radiant stars
hope is a thing with feathers, you say.
i met it, once.
it's repulsive.
grotesque.
hideous.
it sings too, apparently.
cawing loudly,
off-key,
at 3 o'clock in the morning.
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