Above, above, the sky is a painting
A renaissance piece that calls out for sainting
The billows, the ripples the silver-lined rims
Are strokes of a genius; of mother earth's whims.

The cumulonimbus, the rippling ceiling
Rumbles and rolls with the cracks that are pealing
The flickering tridents, the wrath of the gods
Strike awe in the temporary, tainted and flawed

And I, insubstantial, un-lasting and fading
Stand beneath hanging eaves, hearing and waiting
Beside me, within me, a childish voice
Hums a soft tune beneath all the noise:

The sky, the sky, it's all coming down
The indigo shroud; it's falling around
In crystalline spheres and mother earth's mist-
The dust is erupting, the earth feels its kiss.